John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Religious PoemsThe Wife of Manoah to Her Husband
A
The city towers rise black and tall,
Where Zorah, on its rocky height,
Stands like an armed man in the light.
Falls like a cloud the night amain,
And up the hillsides climbing slow
The barley reapers homeward go.
The sunset light hath hallowëd,
Where at this olive’s foot he lies,
Uplooking to the tranquil skies.
Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat,
I ’ve watched, with mingled joy and dread,
Our child upon his grassy bed.
Whose morning hope like mine had flown,
When to her bosom, over-blessed,
A dearer life than hers is pressed.
Which shapes our dear one to its will;
Forever in his large calm eyes,
I read a tale of sacrifice.
When at the altar’s side we knelt,
And he, who as a pilgrim came,
Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame.
A dreamlike murmuring in the shade,
And on me the warm-fingered hours
Pressed with the drowsy smell of flowers.
The hosts of Israel’s scornful foes,—
Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear,
Glittered in noon’s hot atmosphere.
Their mockery of the Hebrew’s Lord,
I saw their hands His ark assail,
Their feet profane His holy veil.
No thunder from the still sky broke;
But in their midst, in power and awe,
Like God’s waked wrath, our child I saw!
He towered a giant in the throng,
And down his shoulders, broad and bare,
Swept the black terror of his hair.
As round the reaper falls the grain,
So the dark host around him fell,
So sank the foes of Israel!
The towers and domes of Askelon;
Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd
Within her idol temple bowed.
His arms the massive pillars twined,—
An eyeless captive, strong with hate,
He stood there like an evil Fate.
He stooped,—the giant columns reeled;
Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall,
And the thick dust-cloud closed o’er all!
Of the fallen pride of Askelon,
I heard, sheer down the echoing sky,
A voice as of an angel cry,—
Sat through the golden eventide;
Of him who, on thy altar’s blaze,
Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise.
Gray mother of the mighty slain!
Rejoice!” it cried, “he vanquisheth!
The strong in life is strong in death!
Through coming years their hymns of praise,
And gray old men at evening tell
Of all he wrought for Israel.
Alike shall hold thy memory dear,
And pour their blessings on thy head,
O mother of the mighty dead!”
As if great wings the still air stirred,
I only saw the barley sheaves
And hills half hid by olive leaves.
On the dear child who slumbered near;
“With me, as with my only son,
O God,” I said, “Thy will be done!”