Classic Poem

Midnight in the Assyrian camp! No sound
Mingles with the light zephyr, whose faint breath
Fans the dull sleeper's cheek, and lifts the tress
Of raven hair on many a sunburnt brow,
Or revels in light playfulness around
The gorgeous canopy of Holofernes.
'Tis silence all. A murmuring rivulet,
Whose ripples scarce disturb the wakeful ear
Of the tired sentinel, goes whispering by,
And whisperingly is answered by the bough
Of palm and cedar on the mountain side.
The moon hath waned, and in its stead the pale
And melancholy stars are out upon
The midnight sky of Judea.

Lift we now
The veil of yonder tent: what see we there?
Hush! for a sound might wake the slumberer,
Who soon must know a deeper, darker sleep.
There, on his couch, gleaming with gold, and bright
With glittering jewels, the proud conqueror lies.
Deep sleep is on him. Pause and gaze upon
A nation's dreaded scourge! The embroidered robe
Clings to a form of strength and majesty,
And the broad, massive brow, and deep-set eye,
And the compression of the closed lips,
Are all indicative of firm resolve.
He is alone: no! by the flickering beam
Of yonder lump of fretted gold, we see
Another form.

A woman! a fair, lovely flower,
With eye of fire and lip of pride,
Why stands she by the hero's side,
Thus, at the midnight hour?
The glossy tendrils of her hair,
Enwreathed with many a costly gem,
Meet for a monarch's diadem —
Float o'er her bosom fair,
And veil — nay, grace the lovely form
That trembles like a timid dove;
Trembles, but not with thoughts of love.
Ah, no! that bare white arm,
That plucks the falchion from its place,
And waves it glittering o'er her head,
Attests 'tis for no love embrace
Her steps are hither led.

Hark! heard ye not a sudden sound?
The drowsy sentry paused to hear,
But the sweet brooklet, murmuring near,
Is all that meets his startled ear,
In the dim silence round.
And ere the dull gray dawn of day
Breaks from the chambers of the east,
The Hebrew matron takes her way
Among her native hills to pray;
And 'tis their lord's behest
That she, unquestioned, pass to where
Her feelings pour themselves in prayer.

She leaves that scene of blood behind,
And speeds through many a lonely dell;
But the fearful workings of her mind,
Oh! who shall dare to tell?
She leaves that scene, but not alone —
A severed, ghastly, gory head,
Whose glances lately met her own,
Bears witness from the dead,
How fearfully her woman's soul
Had mocked at Nature's soft control —
How well her mission sped!
Oh! not by woman's gentle hand
Should blood be shed or victory won;
Yet, for her God, her love, her land,
What hath not woman done?