It was true; the battle had ceased for that day, and the exhausted combatants had retired as daylight departed, to prepare for a fiercer conflict on the morrow. No sounds now fell on Salome's ear but the sighing of the evening breeze and the hoarse cry of the vultures as they hovered over the pestilent streets. The gusts of air that entered the open casements of her chamber were tainted with the foul vapours of the city, though Naomi had placed her vases of blooming flowers within the window, in the hope of excluding the noxious odour. In the midst of all her other cares and anxieties, these favourite plants were watched and tended for her mother's sake, and their bright blossoms, so pure and fragrant in the midst of death and corruption, were an emblem of the purity of Naomi's spirit and the beauty of her holy faith, that remained unsullied amid the depravity that surrounded her, and only grew brighter and more lovely as the path in which she walked became darker. Nothing but that faith could have supported the Jewish maid under her present trials, or have enabled her to bear the prospect of those which she anticipated. Nothing but the firm assurance that her Redeemer's eye was upon her, and His arm sustaining her, and that all things would work together for good to those who loved God, could have enabled her to maintain a calm and almost a cheerful spirit in that time of matchless woe. Nothing but a perfect confidence that her mother's soul was about to wing its way to a realm of unutterable bliss, and that the same faith which opened the portals of heaven to Salome's ransomed spirit, would also enable her to join her there, could have taught her to look on the dying and beloved form before her and not feel that her heart was breaking.
Naomi took her harp, which was once her greatest pleasure and most frequent occupation, but now was never touched except when Salome wished to be soothed by its plaintive sound. She seated herself near the open casement, where she could look out on the Mount of Olives and the more distant Hills of Judgment, now illuminated by the rising moon, and in a low sweet voice she sang her mother's favourite hymn.
"Mother, let thy spirit rest in peace:
He who died for thee is watching near.
Jesus bids thine anxious doubts to cease,
And gently whispers, 'Wherefore dost thou fear.'
Mother, trust thy soul to him,
Lord of the hosts of Seraphim;
The crucified, the holy one,
God's only well-beloved Son!
He has bid the weary sinner come,
He calls the heavy-laden to his breast.
Oh, vainly may the troubled spirit roam,
Until at Jesu's feet it sinks to rest.
Then, mother, cast thy cares on him,
Lord of the hosts of Seraphim;
The crucified, the holy one,
God's only, well-beloved Son!
He hath said that he will ne'er cast out
In any wise the soul that comes to him.
He will not crush thy faith, though mixed with doubt,
Or quench thy heavenly hopes, however dim.
Mother, fix thy hopes on him,
Lord of the hosts of Seraphim;
The crucified, the holy one,
God's only, well-beloved Son!
And when he sets thy ransomed spirit free
From earthly trials—earthly care and woe,
I will not murmur at the sad decree.
Would I detain thee?—dearest mother, no!
In glory thou wilt dwell with him,
Lord of the hosts of Seraphim;
The crucified, the holy one,
God's only, well-beloved Son!"