JEPHTHAH.
Perfumes of a precious stone,
Where beneath His feet the dire
World of shells is pashed with mire,
And the evil spirits’ ire
Steams and fumes within the zone
Girt with minaret and spire
Broken, burst, and overthrown,
Dusty, and defiled, and dun,
Palled with smoke of fruitless altars
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 concealéd thought,
And the worshipper’s eye, wrought
To the stars in subtle fashion,
By no magic is distraught.
For 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.
For amid the desert sand
Lives an outcast of our race,
Strong, immutable, and grand,