"Sometime walking, not unseen,
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,
Right against the eastern gate
Where the great sun begins his state,
Rob'd in flames and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight.
While the ploughman near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower wets his sithe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale."
"'Twas not the moon in glory streaming,
As she swam forth from cloud concealing;
It was not meteor-glance, nor lightning,
The gorgeous concave instant bright'ning,
That rushing on the shepherd's eye
Illumined heaven's vast canopy!
But, sailing down the radiant sky,
From bowers of bliss, from worlds on high,
Appeared, upborne on wings of fire,
A seraph host, an angel choir."
"And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel, the daughter of Laban his mother's brother, and the sheep of Laban his mother's brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his mother's brother.
"And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice and wept."-Gen. xxix.
SCENE I.-A pleasant Valley.
sun is high in heaven, and from his throne
Of glory flings abroad the fervid day.
Nature, beneath the lustre of his eye,
Droops languidly. The breezeless groves are mute;
Yet still the merry grasshopper his lay
Chants blithly, and the bee on mossy bank
Sings to the rose; while strays from flower to flower,
Gay child of beauty, on empurpled wing
And weary with long travel. O, how sweet
Beneath the weeping sycamore to lie,
Or the fresh-waving palm, and with the hand
From the blue fountain's wild harmonious gush
To scoop the living waters, t' allay the thirst,
The burning thirst, and bathe the throbbing brow.
Sure I must now be near my journey's end,
My pilgrimage of love and bridal bliss ;
For I have travelled far since morning dawn,
When I at Bethel a rude pillar raised,
The pillar of my vows, and on the rock,
'Gainst which my houseless head I laid to sleep,
Poured out the sacred oil.c But lo! I see
The shepherds lead their flocks to taste the cool
Translucent stream, which from yon well they lave:
I'll haste with them to quaff a cheering draught,
And learn if I the dwelling-place am near
Of my loved mother's kindred, Nahor's son. [Exit.
SCENE II.-The Well. Shepherds with their Flocks.
THANKS, gentle shepherd.-How refreshing 'tis
To a parched traveller, toiling on his way,
To taste the limpid spring bright welling forth :
More sweet it seems than wine of palm or grape,
Served up in costly bowl at kingly feast.
Unpent in cities, ye are Nature's sons,
Who roam at freedom, and enjoy the rich
Variety she yields. The beautiful,
The rude and dreadful, simple and sublime,
Are yours, children of liberty: for ye can view
At early dawn the clear blue arch of heaven,
With all its pomp of colours, and the sun
Rise in unbounded glory to the sound
Of rustic reed, and waterfall, and hymn
Of morning winds, and all the passionate lays
Of forest warblers. At the noon, the fount,
O'ercanopied with fragrant myrtle-flowers,
Is yours, by which to lie, on roseate bank,
Where visits the wild bee with drowsy note
Each opening bud; while in the shady grove,
Your flocks couch ruminating. And when eve,
Breathing mysterious airs and odours rich
Comes o'er the world, with her sweet star of dews,
And bids the glow-worm light her amorous lamp,
As to the folds ye lead your gentle sheep
The moon from cloud-clad tabernacle looks,
And a fresh scene of soft enchantment breaks,
Silvery and shadowy wrought, on your glad sight;
While in the forest and pomegranate bower,
The nightingales are talking sweet of love.
When ye the lofty mountain's brow achieve,
And all the vast sun-gilded prospect shines,
Of woods and waters, cities, vales, and plains,
In full luxuriancy, how bound your hearts
With high delight. Nor can ye feel less joy,
Though mixed with awe and wonder, when ye view
The rugged precipice and towering cliff,
On which the screaming eagle sits, and builds
Her eyried nest the blood-hawk; or look forth
Towards the lone desert, and behold afar
The moving of its wind-stirred sea of sand,
Whose crimson columns, lifted to the sky,
With horrid stride stalk o'er the dismal waste,
The traveller burying 'neath their mountain dust!
But, tell me, friendly shepherd of the groves,
From whence ye come, and where your kindred dwell.
From Haran are we, stranger, and beyond
That palmy wood our humble dwellings stand.
And do ye Laban know,
Say.
SHEPHERD.
Stranger, we do.
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