stupefied, spellbound, with eyes that gazed but saw nothing; and then, with one accord, they looked upon the city, but they saw it not.

A huge cloud of dust, thick, ponderous, impenetrable, hung over the spot; while rumbling echoes and reverberations rolled back from the hillsechoes of other sounds than those to which the heavens and the host of Israel had given birth— the sounds of crumbling walls, of falling masses of masonry; and voices, not the triumphant shout of besiegers, but screams, shrill and prolonged, where intense terror strove with mortal anguish, until both seemed to conquer.

66

And now the words of Joshua, the son of Nun, rose above the dying clamor: Let Israel advance up into the city, every man before him!"

All day the crouching lion had lain in ambush. Then he had prowled forth from his lair, with lashing tail and eager fangs. Now he sprang! With one mighty impulse the surging mass swept forward into the murky cloud that still enveloped the smitten foe.

And then the freshening breeze of evening came. down over the hills and drove before it the last safeguard of a lost race, until, in the yellow twilight, the people saw tower and rampart lying in headlong ruin. Where but a moment before lofty wall and buttress had reared their massive strength heavenward, and had proudly bade the bearer of spear and shield "Be of good cheer! How shall harm come to ye unless the Gods of Israel can give their war

riors wings?"-there were heaps of shattered debris, stone, brick, and timber, and among them now and again spear and shield-aye, and grimmer witnesses. of destruction. Here an arm reached out from beneath heaps of rubbish; there a broken helmet disclosed a face ghastly and bloodstained; for amid that smoking mass lay the flower of the city's soldiery. Hands that a moment before had strained the hilt of sword or drawn bowstring, and lips that had scoffed and mocked and cursed the armies of the invader, now rested, nerveless and voiceless, beneath the guard on which they had so firmly relied, while over the still seething ruins, over buried hand and silenced lip, rolled the oncoming tide of relentless assault.

DUFFIELD OSBORNE

38

DEBORAH'S SONG

Warriors of Israel! sheathe the sword,
And dash the waving plume away;
With triumph spread the festal board,
And shout on high the joyful lay.
Fall'n is the pride of Jabin's host,
And ceas'd the triumph of the foe;
Yet let not Israel's warriors boast,-

A woman's hand hath dealt the blow!

Frail though by nature woman be,
Ill fit to lift th'avenging rod,
Yet is her soul from weakness free,
And strong, the instrument of God.
Loud is the wail in Jabin's band,

And deep the woe their souls must feel.
Where is their chief's resistless hand?
Where his proud arm and vengeful steel?

He died a death that none should die,

Whate'er their deeds, whate'er their guilt;
His pangs were dear to woman's eye;
By woman's hand his blood was spilt.
For him no hostile bow was bent,

For him was drawn no foeman's sword;
His death-place was the peaceful tent,-
His death the judgment of the Lord!

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

39

JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER

Judges xi. 30-31

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 statue, and the wind,
Just swaying her light robe, revealed a shape
Praxiteles might worship. She had clasped
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 polished. She was stilling
Her light, quick breath to hear; and the white rose
Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swelled
To meet the arching of her queenly neck.
Her countenance was radiant with love;
She looked like one to die for it—a being
Whose whole existence was the pouring out
Of rich and deep affections.

Onward came

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, poured from far,
Like the deep murmur of a restless sea.
They came, as earthly conquerors always come,
With blood and splendor, revelry and woe.
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 crushed 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 Mizpah's streets. His helm was proudly set,

And his stern lip curled slightly, as if praise

Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm,
But free as India's leopard; and his mail,
Whose shackles 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
Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The
veins

Grew visible upon his swarthy brow,

And his proud lip was pressed 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 intently forward. The tall firs
Before his door were motionless. The leaves
Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines
Which half concealed his threshold, met his eye,
Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one,
The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems,