Classic and Contemporary Poetry
JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER, by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Poet's Biography First Line: She stood before her father's gorgeous tent Last Line: And she was dead -- but not by violence. Subject(s): Fathers & Daughters; Jephthah (bible); Sacrifices | ||||||||
SHE stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statute, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it -- a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. I have thought A brother's and a sister's love were much; I know a brother's is -- for I have been A sister's idol -- and I know how full The heart may be of tenderness to her! But the affection of a delicate child For a fond father, gushing, as it does, With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on, Through all earth's changes, like a river's course -- Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure By the world's discipline of light and shade -- 'Tis deeper -- holier. The wind bore on The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and wo. The stately horse treads proudly -- he hath trod The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on -- Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. Man is there -- Majestic, lordly man -- with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame; Lifting his crest in triumph -- for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard; and his mail, Whose shekels none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his tent were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up, Like the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light, to meet him. Oh how beautiful! -- Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem -- And her luxuriant hair! -- 'twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw Her arms about his neck -- he heeded not. She call'd him "Father" -- but he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands, And spoke the name of God, in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then; and rush'd Again into his arms; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words. He told her -- and a momentary flush Shot o'er her countenance; and then the soul Of Jephthah's daughter waken'd; and she stood Calmly and nobly up, and said 'twas well -- And she would die. * * * * * The sun had well nigh set. The fire was on the altar; and the priest Of the High God was there. A pallid man Was stretching out his trembling hands to heaven, As if he would have pray'd, but had no words -- And she who was to die, the calmest one In Israel at that hour, stood up alone, And waited for the sun to set. Her face Was pale, but very beautiful -- her lip Had a more delicate outline, and the tint Was deeper; but her countenance was like The majesty of angels. The sun set -- And she was dead -- but not by violence. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILD TAKEN FROM THE MOTHER by MINNIE BRUCE PRATT WHAT WAS LEFT OVER; FOR SUJATA BHATT by ELEANOR WILNER COLORADO MORTON'S RIDE by LEONARD BACON (1887-1954) A LITTLE BOY LOST, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ELSA WERTMAN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS GREATER LOVE by ANTIPATER OF SIDON THE WAY OF SACRIFICE by MATTHEW ARNOLD OF GENERAL GOURAUD by ROBERTA BALFOUR ANDRE'S LAST REQUEST [OR, REQUEST TO WASHINGTON] [OCTOBER 1, 1780] by NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS |
|