"Two men in this city there dwelleth, my lord—
One is blessed in the battle, and blessed by the board:
He hath numberless flocks in the field and the fold,
And the wealth of his coffers remaineth untold.
The other hath naught save one lamb, which he fed
Like a child of his household; it ate of his bread,
It partook of his portion of food and of rest,
It followed his footsteps, it lay on his breast,
It lightened his sorrows with innocent art,
And e'en, as a daughter, was dear to his heart.
A traveler came to the rich man's abode,
And he welcomed the guest in the name of his God;
Bade him tarry awhile, 'mid the fierce noontide heat,
'Neath the vine-tree's broad shadow, to rest him and eat.
Then straightway he hasted, with tenderest care,
To spread forth the board and the banquet prepare,
While he spared of his own to take youngling or dam
But dressed for the stranger his neighbor's ewe lamb.
As a breath from the meadow, on wings of the wind,
To the sense that had breathed but the perfume of Ind,
Seemed this tale of simplicity, told to the heart
That had dwelt 'mid the spells of magnificent art.
Spake the king, while fierce anger flashed hot from his eye,
"Now, as the Lord liveth! this robber shall die!
To the victim of wrong let his cattle be told,
Till full restitution be rendered fourfould,
And cursed be forever, with sword and with brand,
The wretch who hath done such foul wrong in our land!"
Then with stern condemnation the prophet replied
To the monarch, who sat in his purple-clad pride,
And his bold voice resounded throughout the broad span
Of the arches above them, "Thou, thou art the man!
Saith the Lord, I have raised thee from humble estate,
To rule o'er a nation most favored and great—
I have given thee Judah thy portion to be,
And the honor of Israel centres in thee!
Thy children, like olive boughs, circle thy board,
And the wives of thy master await at thy word,
But insatiate still, thou hast entered the dome
Of thy neighbor, and stolen the wife from her home;
Thou hast slaughtered the husband with treacherous wile,
And the vengeance of Heaven rewardeth thy guile!
The child of thy love from thy arms shall be torn—
And in sackcloth and ashes thy proud head shall mourn—
The wives of thy household thy rivals shall be—
As thou didst unto others, so be it to thee!
And the sword thou hast taken, with murderous art,
From thy heaven-doomed lineage ne'er shall depart."
A SCENE ON THE SUSQUEHANNA.
HARRISBURG.
BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.
The incidents of life around us—of common life—of everyday events, and the common scenes which Nature has prepared on every side, are full of interest, full of means of gratifying a taste formed or cultivated to rational enjoyment. The Hymmalayen mountains may overtop the Andes, and the Amazon bear more water to the sea than the Susquehanna, but it follows not thence that the combination of scenery—points of beauty to be associated with the eye—are less attractive in the latter than in the former; and though thousands may tread, may ride, or may murder on the unfrequented path of the elder world, and give tragic effect to narrative, yet on all sides of us, in our home experience, and our limited wandering, events are every day occurring of as much interest to the participators as are those which constitute the theme of the foreign tourist; and scenes are presenting themselves almost daily within our own observation, that need only the pen of a Radcliffe to describe, or the pencil of a Claude to depict, to fix them on the imperishable canvas of the artist or the immortal page of the gifted poet.