Jacob's Pillow

JACOB'S  PILLOW

The  bed  was  earth,  the  raised  pillow  stones,
Whereon  poor  Jacob  rests  his  head,  his  bones;
Heaven  was  his  canopy;  the  shades  of  night
Were  his  drawn  curtains,  to  exclude  the  light.

Poor  state  for  Israel's  heir   it  seems  to  me
His  cattle  found  as  soft  a  bed  as  he:
Yet  God  appeared  there,  his  joy,  his  crown;
God  is  not  always  seen  in  beds  of  down.

Oh,  if  that  God  shall  please  to  make  my  bed,
I  care  not  where  I  rest  my  bones,  my  head;
With  Him,  my  wants  can  never  prove  extreme;
With  Jacob's  pillow  give  me  Jacob's  dream.

Philip  Quarles. 

Jacob's Dream

JACOB'S  DREAM

The sun  was  sinking  on  the  mountain  zone
That  guards  thy  vales  of  beauty,  Palestine !
And  lovely  from  the  desert  rose  the  moon,
Yet  lingering  on  the  horizon's  purple  line,
Like  a  pure  spirit  o'er  its  earthly  shrine.
Up  Bethel's  rocky  height  abrupt  and  bare
A  pilgrim  toiled,  and  oft  on  day's  decline
Looked  pale, then paused for eve's delicious air;
The  summit  gained,  lie  knelt,  and  breathed  his  evening  prayer.

He  spread  his  cloak,  and  slumbered;  darkness  fell
Upon  the  twilight  hills;  a  sudden  sound
Of  silver  trumpets  o'er  him  seemed  to  swell,
Clouds  heavy  with  the  tempest  gathered  round;
Yet  was  the  whirlwind  in  its  cavern  bound;
Still  deeper  rolled  the  darkness  from  on  high,
Gigantic  volume  upon  volume  wound;
Above,  a  pillar  shooting  to  the  sky;
Below,  a  mighty  sea  that  spread  incessantly.

Voices  are  heard,  a  choir  of  golden  strings,
Low  winds,  whose  breath  is  loaded  with  the  rose:
Then  chariot-wheels,  the  nearer  rush  of  wings;
Pale  lightning  round  the  dark  pavilion  glows.
It  thunders;  the  resplendent  gates  unclose;
Far  as  the  eye  can  glance,  on  height  o'er  height
Rise  fiery  waving  wings,  and  star-crowned  brows,
Millions  on  millions,  brighter  and  more  bright,
Till  all  is  lost  in  one  supreme,  unmingled  light.

But  two  beside  the  sleeping  pilgrim  stand,
Like  cherub  kings,  with  lifted,  mighty  plume,
Fixed,  sun-bright  eyes,  and  looks  of  high  command:
They  tell  the  Patriarch  of  his  glorious  doom;
Father  of  countless  myriads  that  shall  come,
Sweeping  the  land  like  billows  of  the  sea,
Bright  as  the  stars  of  heaven  from  twilight's  gloom,
Till  He  is  given  whom  angels  long  to  see,
And  Israel's  splendid  line  is  crowned  with  Deity.

Rev. George Croly. 

The Cave of Machpelah

 THE CAVE OF MACHPELAH

Calm is it in the dim cathedral cloister,
Where lie the dead all couched in marble rare,
Where the shades thicken, and the breath hangs moister
Than in the sunlit air.

Where the chance ray that makes the carved stone whiter,
Tints with a crimson or a violet light
Some pale old bishop with his staff and mitre,
Some stiff crusading knight!

Sweet is it where the little graves fling shadows
In the green churchyard, on the shaven grass,
And a faint cowslip fragrance from the meadows
O'er the low wall doth pass!

More sweet, more calm in that fair valley's bosom
The burial-place in Ephron's pasture-ground,
Where the oil-olive shed her snowy blossom,
And the red grape was found;

When the great pastoral prince, with love undying,
Rose up in anguish from the face of death,
And weighed the silver shekels for its buying
Before the sons of Heth.

Here, when the measure of his days was numbered,--
Days few and evil in this vale of tears!--
At Sarah's side the faithful patriarch slumbered,
An old man full of years:

Here, holy Isaac, meek of heart and gentle,
And the fair maid who came to him from far,
And the sad sire who knew all throes parental,
And meek-eyed Leah, are.

She rests not here, the beautiful of feature,
For whom her Jacob wrought his years twice o'er,
And deemed them but as one, for that fair creature,
- - So dear the love he bore, --

Nor Israel's son beloved, who brought him sleeping
With a long pomp of woe to Canaan's shade,
Till all the people wondered at the weeping
By the Egyptians made.

Like roses from the same tree gathered yearly,
And Hung together in one vase to keep, --
Some, but not all who loved so well and dearly,
Lie here in quiet sleep.

What though the Moslem mosque be in the valley,
Though faithless hands have sealed the sacred cave,
And the red Prophet's children shout " El Allah!"
Over the Hebrews' grave;

Yet a day cometh when those white walls shaking
Shall give again to light the living dead,
And Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, reawaking,
Spring from their rocky bed.

Mrs. C. F. Alexander.