Collected Works (Vol. I)

Cast beneath the ocean now, Ruined symbols, changéd psalters, Where no lip no longer falters, And the priest’s deep brow Pales not, flushes not for passion, Clouds not with concealed thought, And the worshipper’s eye, wrought To the stars in subtle fashion, By no magic is distraught. Ay! our hope is in His holy Places, and our prayers ascend Fervent, and may sunder slowly The blue darkness at the end. For we know not where to send For a sword to cleanse the land, For a sharp two-edgéd brand, All our homesteads to defend. Now amid the desert sand Lives an outcast of our race, Strong, immutable, and grand, And his mighty hand Grips a mighty mace. He would shatter, did we call, Sons of Ammon one and all, Did we fear not lest his eye Turn back covetous to try For our pleasances, to rule Where the far blue Syrian sky Stretches, where the clouds as wool Mark the white Arabian border, To become a tyrant king Where his sword came conquering. Out of chaos rises order On her wide unwearying wing, But the desolate marauder Never over us shall swing Such a sceptre as should bring Sorrow to one home of ours. Better bear the heavy hours Under God’s avenging breath, Better brave the horrid powers, Better taste the foreign death, Humbling all our pride before God’s most holy throne, abasing Every man’s strong soul, and facing All the heathen Ammon bore On the angry shore, JEPHTHATI _ 69 Trusting to the mercy rare Of Jehovah, than to bare Hearts and bosoms to a friend Who high truth and faith may swear, And betray us at the end To his robber bands. So we clasp our humble hands, Praying God to Tift His sword rom our bleeding state, that stands Tottering to its fall. Though we call not Jephthah back To repel the harsh attack, Nor his followers call, [fear thou, O Most Thigh, give ear To our pitifl complaint : Under woes of war we faint. Pity, Lord of Hosts, our fear ! Hear, Most Tligh, oh, hear! Enter Messenger. MESSENGER. My lords, take heed now, prayer is good to save While yet the foemen are far off; but now They howl and clamour at our very gates. ELEAZAR. Blaspheme not God, but tell thy woeful news. CHorus, I fear me for the sorrow that he speaks. MESSENGER. The tribe of Ephraim went forth to fight Armed, and with bows, and turned them back to-day. For in the South a cloud of many men, And desert horsemen fiery as the sun, Swarmed on the plains, a crescent from the hills That girdle Mahanaim: and behold! Our men were hemmed before the city gates, The elders having fortified them: so They fled about the city, and the horsemen, Dashing, destroyed them as the wind that sweeps