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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
ON Gilead’s hills a voice of wail is heard, | |
| ’T is not the sighing wind or plaining bird; | |
| Where yon cool fountain flows, beneath the shade | |
| Of arching willows sits the Hebrew maid: | |
| Young girls around her raise those cries of woe, | 5 |
| But from sweet Miriam’s lips no murmurs flow: | |
| Calm on that breast, which soon beneath the knife | |
| Must yield to heaven its gentle springs of life, | |
| Droops her fair head, her rich locks, once her pride, | |
| In unbound masses floating by her side. | 10 |
| Like soft dark clouds which screen too brilliant skies | |
| The silken fringe half veils those large black eyes, | |
| And as in that deep hush scarce comes her breath, | |
| She seems absorbed in thought, and dreams of death. | |
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| Although weak shrinkings shake not Miriam’s soul, | 15 |
| Regret’s sad pangs she may not all control; | |
| She feels how lovely Nature smiles around, | |
| Joy in each beam, and music in each sound; | |
| But soon for her the sun will quench its ray, | |
| And all that ’s bright and glorious fade away; | 20 |
| No more for her will gush the bird’s glad song, | |
| The lithe gazelle in beauty bound along! | |
| No more, O, nevermore, the much-loved voice | |
| Of sire or friend will bid her soul rejoice: | |
| That young warm heart, now fond Affection’s seat, | 25 |
| In soft response to love must cease to beat; | |
| In Gilead’s vales no bride shall Miriam smile, | |
| No mother’s joys shall e’er her heart beguile, | |
| Her nuptial wreath must be Death’s plant of gloom, | |
| Hymen’s sweet bower the cold undreaming tomb. | 30 |
| Did fiends or angels prompt that fatal vow? | |
| O, Heaven, look down! support and pity now! | |
| Were ever woes so dark and crushing piled | |
| On one fair head?—alas for Jephthah’s child! | |
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| And there that maiden sat, but made no moan; | 35 |
| Still drooped her beauteous brow, as turned to stone; | |
| The willow branches o’er her sighing spread, | |
| Its crystal tears the bubbling fountain shed: | |
| The fair attendants mourned to hill and dale, | |
| And pitying Echo caught the plaintive wail, | 40 |
| Ages have passed, poor ill-starred Hebrew maid! | |
| Thy heart is hushed, in long, long quiet laid, | |
| Yet pilgrims drawing near this lonely spot, | |
| Will ever think of thee, and mourn thy lot. | |
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