| 495 POETRY.
THE WIDOW OF NAIN
BY N. P. WILLIS.
The Roman sentinel stood helmed and tall Stood thickly on his brow, and the worn
Beside the gate of Nain. The busy tread And simple latchets of his sandals lay,
Of comers to the city mart was done, Thick the white dust of travel. He had come
For it was almost noon, and a dead heat Since sunrise from Capernaum, staying not
Quiver'd upon the fine and sleeping dust, To wet his lips by green Bethsaida's pool,
And the cold snake crept panting from the wall, Nor wash his feet in Kishon's silver springs,
And bask'd his scaly circles in the sun. Nor turn him southward upon Tabor's side
Upon his spear the soldier lean'd, and kept To catch Gilboa's light and spicy breeze.
His idle watch, and, as his drowsy dream Genesareth stood cool upon the east,
Was broken by the solitary foot Fast by the sea of Galilee, and there
Of some poor mendicant, he rais'd his head The weary traveler might bide till eve;
To curse him for a tributary Jew, And on the alders of Bethulia's plains
And slumberously dozed on. The grapes of Palestine hung ripe and wild:
Yet turn'd he not aside, but gazing on,
'Twas now high noon. From every swelling mount, he saw afar
The dull, low murmur of a funeral Amid the hills the humble spires of Nain,
Went through the city-the sad sound of feet The place of his next errand, and the path
Unmix'd with voices-and the sentinel Touch'd not Bethulia, and a league away
Shook off his slumber, and gazed earnestly Upon the east lay pleasant Galilee.
Up the wide streets along whose paved way
The silent throng crept slowly. They came on, Forth from the city-gate the pitying crowd
Bearing a body heavily on its bier, Follow'd the stricken mourner. They came near
And by the crowd that in the burning sun, The place of burial, and with straining hands,
Walk'd with forgetful sadness, 'twas of one Closer upon her breast she clasp'd the pall,
Mourn'd with uncommon sorrow. The broad gate And with a gasping sob, quick as a child's,
Swung on its hinges, and the Roman bent And an inquiring wildness flashing through
His spear point downwards as the bearer past The thin gray lashes of her fever'd eyes,
Bending beneath their burthen. There was one- She came where Jesus stood beside the way.
Only one mourner. Close behind the bier He look'd upon her, and his heart was moved.
Crumpling the pall up in her wither'd hands, "Weep not!" he said, and as they staid the bier,
Follow'd an aged woman. Her short steps And at his bidding laid it at his feet,
Falter'd with weakness, and a broken moan He gently drew the pall from out her grasp
Fell from her lips, thicken'd convulsively And laid it back in silence from the dead.
As her heart bled afresh. The pitying crowd With troubled wonder the mute throng drew near,
Follow'd apart, but none spoke to her. And gazed on his calm looks. A minute's space,
She had no kinsmen. She had lived alone- He stood and pray'd, Then taking the cold hand,
A widow with one son. He was her all- He said "Arise!" And instantly the breast
The only tie she had in the wide world- Heav'd in its cerements, and a sudden flush
And he was dead. They could not comfort her. Ran through the lines of the divided lips,
And with a murmur of his mother's name,
Jesus drew near to Nain as from the gate He trembled and sat upright in his shroud.
The funeral came forth. His lips were pale And while the mourner hung upon his neck,
With the noon's]sultry heat. The beaded sweat Jesus went calmly on his way to Nain.
The Times and Seasons,
Is printed and published about the first and fifteenth of every month, on the corner of Water and Bain Streets, Nauvoo, Hancock County, Illinois, by
JOHN TAYLOR, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
TERMS.-Two Dollars per annum, Payable in all cases in advance. Any person procuring five new subscribers, and forwarding us Ten Dollars current money, shall receive one volume gratis. All letters must be addressed to John Taylor, editor, POST PAID, or they will not receive attention.
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