Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear,
Glittered in noon’s hot atmosphere.
I heard their boast, and bitter word,
Their mockery of the Hebrew’s Lord,
I saw their hands His ark assail,
Their feet profane His holy veil.
No angel down the blue space spoke,
No thunder from the still sky broke;
But in their midst, in power and awe,
Like God’s waked wrath, our child I saw!
A child no more!—harsh-browed and strong,
He towered a giant in the throng,
And down his shoulders, broad and bare,
Swept the black terror of his hair.
He raised his arm—he smote amain;
As round the reaper falls the grain,
So the dark host around him fell,
So sank the foes of Israel!
Again I looked. In sunlight shone
The towers and domes of Askelon;
Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd
Within her idol temple bowed.
Yet one knelt not; stark, gaunt, and blind,
His arms the massive pillars twined,—
An eyeless captive, strong with hate,
He stood there like an evil Fate.
The red shrines smoked,—the trumpets pealed:
He stooped,—the giant columns reeled;
Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall,
And the thick dust-cloud closed o’er all!
Above the shriek, the crash, the groan
Of the fallen pride of Askelon,
I heard, sheer down the echoing sky,
A voice as of an angel cry,—
The voice of him, who at our side
Sat through the golden eventide;
Of him who, on thy altar’s blaze,
Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise.
“Rejoice o’er Israel’s broken chain,
Gray mother of the mighty slain!
Rejoice!” it cried, “he vanquisheth!
The strong in life is strong in death!
“To him shall Zorah’s daughters raise
Through coming years their hymns of praise,
And gray old men at evening tell
Of all he wrought for Israel.
“And they who sing and they who hear
Alike shall hold thy memory dear,
And pour their blessings on thy head,
O mother of the mighty dead!”
It ceased; and though a sound I heard
As if great wings the still air stirred,
I only saw the barley sheaves
And hills half hid by olive leaves.
I bowed my face, in awe and fear,
On the dear child who slumbered near;
“With me, as with my only son,
O God,” I said, “Thy will be done!”
MY SOUL AND I
Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark
I would question thee,
Alone in the shadow drear and stark
With God and me!
What, my soul, was thy errand here?
Was it mirth or ease,
Or heaping up dust from year to year?
“Nay, none of these!”
Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight
Whose eye looks still
And steadily on thee through the night:
“To do His will!”
What hast thou done, O soul of mine,
That thou tremblest so?
Hast thou wrought His task, and kept the line
He bade thee go?
What, silent all! art sad of cheer?
Art fearful now?
When God seemed far and men were near,
How brave wert thou!
Aha! thou tremblest!—well I see
Thou ’rt craven grown,
Is it so hard with God and me
To stand alone?
