Classic Poem

And, while the wheels whirred like the hum of bees,
The chant rose softly as flow summer winds
Over ambrosial downs, or through the copse
Where linnets sing, or woods where wild doves woo.
But she, for whose soul's weal the music rose,
Felt not its charm; unlulled, unsoothed; but sat,
Tossed on a sea of doubt and fear. As one
Who, in the cozy cabin, sits below,
And hears the moaning of the windy main,
Perchance forebodes, so she, the while they sung,
Revolving mournful with her wondering soul,
Secluded, silent, dim, sat desolate
Within the tent of her dishevelled hair.
A grief that comprehended not its cause
Consumed her; and, as passed the tints of day
Out at the windows of the west, the light
Ebbed from her eyes, the colour from her cheeks
And lower, and still lower yet, she drooped,
As droops a fair and stately household plant
That misses its accustomed watering;
And, still no tidings from the absent Jephthah,
At length around her sat her maidens mute,
And looked into each other's face, perplexed.
He, in a dark delirium of distress,
Had sought a neighbouring wooded glen, and there
With Heaven thus pleaded for his forfeit child:

‘God, God, oh, God, demand not, stern, thy due!
If I have ever moved thee by my prayers,
If favour ever found before thine eyes,
If I am father to my daughter, she
The only heir to my affections,—if
I am an heir of Abraham, the sad sire
Who to Moriah went to slay his son,
But for whose need thou didst provide a ram,
Oh, hear me now, dispense, or else provide!
Behold, I am a rash, imperfect man,
With but one cherished child, a daughter, lamb,
Whose life I staked, not knowing what I did.
Forgive, forego; or say what ransom thou
Demand'st, what price. I give thee all I have
Save her: take all, take me; e'en take the mother.
Take my whole household, all that throng my fields;
Choose Tabor for thine altar; I will pile
It with the choice of Bashan's lusty herds,
And flocks of fallings, and, for fuel, thither
Will bring umbrageous Lebanon to burn;
Whilst, in the stead of wine and oil, there shall
Pour over it the blood of heathen kings,
So her blood thou wilt spare, and, gracious, give
To me some token that my prayer is heard.”

He said, and stood awaiting for the sign,
And hears above the hoarse, bough-bending wind,
The hill-wolf howling on the neighbouring height,
And bittern booming in the pool below.
Some drops of rain fell from the passing cloud,
That sudden hides the wanly shining moon,
And from the scabbard instant dropped his sword,
And, with long, living leaps and rock-struck clang,
From side to side, and slope to sounding slope,
In gleaming whirls swept down the dim ravine
(Ill omen!): and, mute trembling, as he stood
Helmless (to his astonished view), his daughter,
All in sad disarray, appeared,