Day, or the sweet approach of ev’n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom or summer’s rose,
Or flocks or herds, or human face divine.”
To him taste has lost its sweetness; music, its melody.
David—for it is he who wears the robes of royalty,—insists on his aged friend accompanying him to Jerusalem.
Noble-hearted old Barzillai replies, that he will go a little way with him beyond Jordan, but adds, “Let thy servant, I pray thee, turn back again, that I may die in mine own city, and be buried in the grave of my father and my mother.”
How beautiful! how touching! how true to nature!
The winter of age is not severe enough to wither the blossoms of youth!——
A storm is raging on the sea of Galilee; the heavens are black with clouds; the moaning of the billows, as they dash against the sides of the vessel, falls on the ear with a peculiar loneliness; the winds are howling fearfully through the rigging; an occasional flash of lightning, as it darts athwart the waters, reveals to the eye many a face pale with fear, and many a form struggling nobly with the furious elements.
There is on that vessel an old weather-beaten sailor, whose home is the bosom of the lake. Hardship and exposure have rendered him perfectly reckless as to danger. His brow shows no signs of fear; his noble heart throbs only with emotions of fearless daring.