194 THE Hebrew's prayer. 



by the performance of those duties which the ordinance of the 

 Almighty and the customs of our nation have established." 



Here he paused — and after remaining- a few moments absorbed 

 as it were in inward prayer, continued — " Zilla, my child, 

 daughter of my long lost Miriaita, once more, before I die, let 

 me hear thy voice in one of our sacred melodies — methinks, I 

 could then close my eyes in peace." 



Zillah arose from her knees at her father's request, and, 

 reaching down a small harp, which was suspended from a nail 

 near the head of the couch, drew her fingers rapidly over the 

 strings — struck a few simple, yet impressive chords — and then 

 paused awhile, as if overpowered by conflicting emotions. 

 At this moment, she presented one of the most lovely, and, at 

 the same time, most solemn spectacles I ever beheld — though 

 young, she had all that voluptuous fulness of figure which is so 

 peculiar to the natives of the east — her jet black locks were 

 collected in a silken net at the back of her head, and left bare a 

 forehead, in which was displayed more determination of character 

 than one would have expected to meet with in a being so frail 

 and so delicate. 



" Her dark eye had misfortune's doubtful presage, 

 It had that troubled melancholy loveliness, 

 'Twas like the fabled flower of woe, that lines 

 Of sorrow in its cup of beauty bears" — 



And her whole expression, though dejected, was yet calm. 



I had hardly had time to observe her, when, suddenly re- 

 covering from the fit of abstraction in which she had been 

 plunged, she took up the harp, which had fallen from her grasp ; 

 and, her countenance beaming with an almost supernatural 

 inspiration, began to sing or rather chant to a melancholy air 

 the following words : — 



An exile in a foreign land, 



I bend a suppliant knee ; 

 Then stay, Great Lord, thy chastening hand 



From those that trust in thee. 



Now, in this last, and saddest hour, 



When yawns the expectant grave, 

 Save me — for thou alone hast power 



To pity, and to save. 



Far from that happy land I roam, 



Which erst my fathers trod ; 

 Oh ! take me to the outcast's home,— 



The bosom of my God. 



In those bright regions of repose, 



My wearied soul receive ; 

 Where way-worn travellers end their woes, 



And mourners cease to grieve. 



