But cold, bare cliffs of granite stand,
Like sentinels of stone,
Year after year, through wind and snow,
Around a craggy throne.
And on the topmost, coldest peak
There is a spot of woe—
A little tomb, an old gray tomb,
Raised centuries ago.
For there within her grave she lies
Plucked in an evil hour-
The martyred daughter of her race,
Israel's fairest flower!
There Jephthah's maid forever sleeps—
The victim that he vowed-
But, four days in the dreary year,
The loneliness is loud.
And Gilead's mourning daughters
Up from the valley throng-
The mountain glens reverberate
With sorrow and with song!
Oh, loud and long and wild they wail
The light untimely spent,
And dance upon the mountain-top
A choral of lament.
And as they dance they seem to see
Another dancer, too,
And hear, amidst the measure rise,
The voice of her they rue!
(Translated by Alter Brody.)
(From "Samson Agonistes")
WHEREFORE was my birth from heaven fore-
told
Twice by an angel, who at last, in sight
Of both my parents, all in flames ascended
From off the altar, where an offering burned,
As in a fiery column charioting
His godlike presence, and from some great act
Or benefit revealed to Abraham's race?
Why was my breeding ordered and prescribed
As of a person separate to God,
Destined for great exploits, if I must die
Betrayed, captive, and both my eyes put out,
Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze;
To grind in brazen fetters under task
With this Heaven-gifted strength?
strength,
Put to the labor of a beast, debased
Lower than bond-slave! Promise was, that I
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver;
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves,
Himself in bonds under Philistine yoke.
SHE stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened;—such a blush
In the midst of brown was born
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,-
Which were blackest none could tell;
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat with shaded brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim—
Thus she stood among the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.
Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come
Share my harvest and my home.
Ruth and Naomi
FAREWELL? Oh, no! It may not be;
My firm resolve is heard on high!
I will not breathe farewell to thee,
Save only in my dying sigh.
I know not that I now could bear
Forever from thy side to part,
And live without a friend to share
The treasured sadness of my heart.
I will not boast the martyr's might
To leave my home without a sigh,—
The dwelling of my past delight,
The shelter where I hoped to die.
In such a duty, such an hour,
The weak are strong, the timid brave,
For love puts on an angel's power,
And faith grows mightier than the grave.
For rays of heaven serenely bright
Have gilt the caverns of the tomb;
And I can ponder with delight
On all its gathering thoughts of gloom.
Then, mother, let us haste away
To that blest land to Israel given,
Where faith unsaddened by decay
Dwells nearest to its native heaven.
For where thou goest, I will go;
With thine my earthly lot is cast.
In pain and pleasure, joy and woe,
Will I attend thee to the last.
That hour shall find me by thy side,
And where thy grave is, mine shall be;
Death can but for a time divide
My firm and faithful heart from thee.
WILLIAM OLIVER BOURN PEABODY.
LEAVE thee alone in sorrow! Ask me not, Oh, mother of my dead love, I entreat;
Although I fain would linger near the spot Where rests one I on earth no more shall greet.
Should we who shared our pleasures side by side, Apart in sorrow and bereavement be?
No; I will cleave to thee, whate'er betide,
Knowing no comfort, unless shared with thee.
Then seek not to divide my path from thine;
Tread not alone thy journey, full of woe;
For his dear sake thy people shall be mine,
And whither thou goest will I also go.
THE plume-like swaying of the auburn corn By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann'd, Still brings me back thine image-Oh! forlorn Yet not forsaken Ruth-I see thee stand
Lone 'midst the gladness of the harvest band-
Lone as the wood-bird on the ocean's foam,
Fall'n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home,
That finest, purest, which can recognize
Home in affection's glance, for ever true
Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eye
Gleam tremulous through tears, 'tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep Love's tone,
"Thy people and thy God shall be mine own.'
FELICIA HEMANS.
SWEET Moab gleaner on old Israel's plain,
Thy simple story moveth like a power.
Thy pure, calm face looks from the ripened grain,
Wherein thou gleanest, on our toil and pain,
And in the light of thy soft eyes again.
Our dead lives bud and blossom into flower.
But lives like thine, sweet Ruth, are holy things,
Rich, simple, earnest in their wealth of duty;—
God's love forever to their music sings,
His angels shield them with their sheltering wings,
His spirit truth and trust and comfort brings,
And God Himself smiles on their godlike beauty.
PHILLIPS Brooks.
Ruth and Naomi
ARABBI'S child and Puritan's once met;
And, like those fabled mates, with each a wing,
That only soar when they together cling, These comrades happy joined in mutual debt For rich ancestral stores most alien. Yet
As greatest pleasures know no lasting spring— Death came; but sunny Mem'ry comforting, In tears with brightest rays her rainbow set.
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