Jephthah and Other Mysteries

JEPHTHAH. Perfumes of a precious stone, Where beneath His feet the dire World of shells is pashed with mire, And the evil spirits’ ire Steams and fumes within the zone Girt with minaret and spire Broken, burst, and overthrown, Dusty, and defiled, and dun, Palled with smoke of fruitless altars Cast beneath the ocean now, Ruined symbols, changéd psalters, Where no lip no longer falters, And the priest’s deep brow Pales not, flushes not for passion, Clouds not with concealéd thought, And the worshipper’s eye, wrought To the stars in subtle fashion, By no magic is distraught. For our hope is in His holy Places, and our prayers ascend Fervent, and may sunder slowly The blue darkness at the end. For we know not where to send For a sword to cleanse the land, For a sharp two-edgéd brand, All our homesteads to defend. For amid the desert sand Lives an outcast of our race, Strong, immutable, and grand,