Collected Works (Vol. I)

JEPHTHAU 75 The sound of the lust of the slayer As fierce as a Persian’s prayer, And the sound of the loud harp-player Like the wind beats to their tread. A royal triumph is waiting For the captain of Heaven’s choice, A noise as of eagles mating, A cry as of men that rejoice. For victory crowns with garlands Of fame his valour in far lands, And suns sing back to the starlands His praise with a perfect voice. JEPHTHAH. Leave prophecy until I come again ! CHORUS. A prophet told us thou shouldst fight for us And save thy people from the Ammonites. JEPHTHAH. Why look you so? He told you other thing. CHORUS. Nay, lord, no saying that we understood. JEPHTHAH. Speak thou its purport; I may understand. For, know you, in the desert where I dwelt I had strange store of books obscure ; books written Not openly for fools, but inwardly Toward the heart of wise men. And myself Studied no little while upon these things, And, seeking ever solitude, I went Nightly upon a rock that stood alone Threatening the sandy wilderness, and prayed Where many visions came before mine eyes So strange—these eyes have started from my head, And every hair, grown fearful, like a steed Reared in its frenzy: see, these lips of mine Have blanched, these nails have bitten through my flesh For sundry things I saw —and these in- formed My open spirit by their influence, And taught imine ears to catch no doubtful sound Of prophecy, but fix it in my mind, A lambent liquid fire of poetry Full of all meaning as the very stars. Yet of my own life they have never breathed One chilly word of fear, or one divine Roseate syllable of hope and joy. Still less of love. For no sweet life of love Lies to my hand, but I am bound by Fate To the strong compulsion of the sword; my lips Shall fasten on my wife’s not much; nor those Pure lips of innocent girlhood that call me Father ; but my lips must wreathe smiles no more, But set in fearful strength of purpose toward The blood of enemies, in horrid gouts And hideous fountains leaping from great gashes, Rather than that belovéd blood that wells Fervent and red-rose-wise in loving breasts, And little veins of purple in the arms, Or cheeks that are already flushed with it, To crimson them with the intense delight Of eyes that meet and know the spirit dwells Beyond their profound depth in sympathy. Nay, my delight must find some dearest foe, And cleave his body with a lusty stroke That sets the blood sharp tingling in my arm. Yet tell me if perchance I lay aside One day the harness of cold iron, bind on The lighter reins of roses deftly twined By children loving me, to be a harness To drive me on the road of happiness To the far goal of heaven. Would to God It might be so a little ere I die! CHORUS OF ELDERS. This doubtful word his fuming lips gave forth : A maiden shall be slain for many men. This only of his fury seemed obscure.