JEPHTHAH. 23
His wrong he may not forget,
But he pitieth men that call
From the heart that is broken with fear and the noise
of funeral.
JEPHTHAH.
Are all these ready for their hearth and altars
To perish suddenly upon the field,
Pavilioned with the little tents at noon,
And ere the nightfall tented with the dead,
And every hollow made a sepulchre,
And every hill a vantage ground whereon
Hard-breathing fighting men get scanty sleep
Till the dawn lift his eyebrows, and the day
Renew the battle? Will ye follow me
Through slippery ways of blood to Ephraim
To beat with sturdy swords unwearying
Our foemen to their Ammon, and to grapple
With red death clutching at the throat of us,
With famine and with pestilence, at last
To reach a barren vengeance, and perchance
An hundred of your thousands to return
Victors—so best God speed us—and for worst
Death round our cities horrible and vast,
And rape and murder mocking at our ghosts ?
A SOLDIER.
Better they taunt our ghosts than us for cowards!
Live through or die, I will have my sword speak
plain