Jephthah

JEPHTHAH. 23 His wrong he may not forget, But he pitieth men that call From the heart that is broken with fear and the noise of funeral. JEPHTHAH. Are all these ready for their hearth and altars To perish suddenly upon the field, Pavilioned with the little tents at noon, And ere the nightfall tented with the dead, And every hollow made a sepulchre, And every hill a vantage ground whereon Hard-breathing fighting men get scanty sleep Till the dawn lift his eyebrows, and the day Renew the battle? Will ye follow me Through slippery ways of blood to Ephraim To beat with sturdy swords unwearying Our foemen to their Ammon, and to grapple With red death clutching at the throat of us, With famine and with pestilence, at last To reach a barren vengeance, and perchance An hundred of your thousands to return Victors—so best God speed us—and for worst Death round our cities horrible and vast, And rape and murder mocking at our ghosts ? A SOLDIER. Better they taunt our ghosts than us for cowards! Live through or die, I will have my sword speak plain