Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM, by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Poet's Biography First Line: Morn breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Last Line: Upon his face, and wept. Subject(s): Abraham; Sacrifices | ||||||||
MORN breaketh in the east. The purple clouds Are putting on their gold and violet, To look the meeter for the sun's bright coming. Sleep is upon the waters and the wind; And nature, from the wavy forest-leaf To her majestic master, sleeps. As yet There is no mist upon the deep blue sky, And the clear dew is on the blushing bosoms Of crimson roses in a holy rest. How hallow'd is the hour of morning! meet -- Ay, beautifully meet -- for the pure prayer. The patriarch standeth at his tented door, With his white locks uncover'd. 'Tis his wont To gaze upon that gorgeous Orient; And at that hour the awful majesty Of man who talketh often with his God, Is wont to come again, and clothe his brow As at his fourscore strength. But now, he seemeth To be forgetful of his vigorous frame, And boweth to his staff as at the hour Of noontide sultriness. And that bright sun -- He looketh at its pencill'd messengers, Coming in golden raiment, as if all Were but a graven scroll of fearfulness. Ah, he is waiting till it herald in The hour to sacrifice his much-loved son! Light poureth on the world. And Sarah stands Watching the steps of Abraham and her child Along the dewy sides of the far hills, And praying that her sunny boy faint not. Would she have watch'd their path so silently, If she had known that he was going up, E'en in his fair-hair'd beauty, to be slain As a white lamb for sacrifice? They trod Together onward, patriarch and child -- The bright sun throwing back the old man's shade In straight and fair proportions, as of one Whose years were freshly number'd. He stood up, Tall in his vigorous strength; and, like a tree Rooted in Lebanon, his frame bent not. His thin white hairs had yielded to the wind, And left his brow uncover'd; and his face, Impress'd with the stern majesty of grief Nerved to a solemn duty, now stood forth Like a rent rock, submissive, yet sublime. But the young boy -- he of the laughing eye And ruby lip -- the pride of life was on him. He seem'd to drink the morning. Sun and dew, And the aroma of the spicy trees, And all that giveth the delicious East Its fitness for an Eden, stole like light Into his spirit, ravishing his thoughts With love and beauty. Every thing he met, Buoyant or beautiful, the lightest wing Of bird or insect, or the palest dye Of the fresh flowers, won him from his path; And joyously broke forth his tiny shout, As he flung back his silken hair, and sprung Away to some green spot or clustering vine, To pluck his infant trophies. Every tree And fragrant shrub was a new hiding-place; And he would crouch till the old man came by, Then bound before him with his childish laugh, Stealing a look behind him playfully, To see if he had made his father smile. The sun rode on in heaven. The dew stole up From the fresh daughters of the earth, and heat Came like a sleep upon the delicate leaves, And bent them with the blossoms to their dreams. Still trod the patriarch on, with that same step, Firm and unfaltering; turning not aside To seek the olive shades, or lave their lips In the sweet waters of the Syrian wells, Whose gush hath so much music. Weariness Stole on the gentle boy, and he forgot To toss his sunny hair from off his brow, And spring for the fresh flowers and light wings As in the early morning; but he kept Close by his father's side, and bent his head Upon his bosom like a drooping bud, Lifting it not, save now and then to steal A look up to the face whose sternness awed His childishness to silence. It was noon -- And Abraham on Moriah bow'd himself, And buried up his face, and pray'd for strength. He could not look upon his son, and pray; But, with his hand upon the clustering curls Of the fair, kneeling boy, he pray'd that God Would nerve him for that hour. Oh! man was made For the stern conflict. In a mother's love There is more tenderness; the thousand chords, Woven with every fibre of her heart, Complain, like delicate harp-strings, at a breath; But love in man is one deep principle, Which, like a root grown in a rifted rock, Abides the tempest. He rose up, and laid The wood upon the altar. All was done. He stood a moment -- and a deep, quick flush Pass'd o'er his countenance; and then he nerved His spirit with a bitter strength, and spoke -- "Isaac! my only son!" -- The boy look'd up, And Abraham turn'd his face away, and wept. "Where is the lamb, my father?" -- Oh the tones, The sweet, the thrilling music of a child! -- How it doth agonize at such an hour! -- It was the last deep struggle. Abraham held His loved, his beautiful, his only son, And lifted up his arm, and call'd on God -- And lo! God's angel stay'd him -- and he fell Upon his face, and wept. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILD TAKEN FROM THE MOTHER by MINNIE BRUCE PRATT WHAT WAS LEFT OVER; FOR SUJATA BHATT by ELEANOR WILNER COLORADO MORTON'S RIDE by LEONARD BACON (1887-1954) A LITTLE BOY LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ELSA WERTMAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS GREATER LOVE by ANTIPATER OF SIDON THE WAY OF SACRIFICE by MATTHEW ARNOLD OF GENERAL GOURAUD by ROBERTA BALFOUR ANDRE'S LAST REQUEST [OR, REQUEST TO WASHINGTON] [OCTOBER 1, 1780] by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS |
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