The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE CHIEF OF HAZOR. |
 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
THE CHIEF OF HAZOR.
O'er Tabor's height and Ezdraelon's plain
The morn is breaking with a silvery swell
Of light, so beautiful that it doth float
In the blest air, like breathing poetry.
The mountain breeze comes o'er the dewy flowers
With all the freshness and elysian bloom
Of the young heart expanding—(Oh! how soon
To catch the fatal leprosy of guilt!)
When its first thoughts run wild in glorious dreams
Of Fairyland or Paradise; and birds
Of rainbow plumage lift on high their songs,
Whose mellow music breathes deep joy and love.
Along the mossy banks, o'er rugged shelves
And sunny pebbles, leaps the living brook,
Rejoicing in the dayspring, while it drinks
The earliest glory of the sunlight's gush;
And the sweet face of nature wears a smile
Of beauty like the image of its God.
The morn is breaking with a silvery swell
Of light, so beautiful that it doth float
In the blest air, like breathing poetry.
The mountain breeze comes o'er the dewy flowers
With all the freshness and elysian bloom
Of the young heart expanding—(Oh! how soon
To catch the fatal leprosy of guilt!)
When its first thoughts run wild in glorious dreams
Of Fairyland or Paradise; and birds
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Whose mellow music breathes deep joy and love.
Along the mossy banks, o'er rugged shelves
And sunny pebbles, leaps the living brook,
Rejoicing in the dayspring, while it drinks
The earliest glory of the sunlight's gush;
And the sweet face of nature wears a smile
Of beauty like the image of its God.
Thy glorious Temple, Heaven! thy matchless works
Why should the evil enter? why the voice
Of wailing rise—the hollow groan of death—
The savage shriek of carnage? Why should blood
Stain the rich soil that giveth life to flowers,
And mingle with the sunny lowland rill,
Whose music tells of quietness and love?
—Alas! that man, whose hours are very brief,
Should seek to check the race that soon must end!
Why should the evil enter? why the voice
Of wailing rise—the hollow groan of death—
The savage shriek of carnage? Why should blood
Stain the rich soil that giveth life to flowers,
And mingle with the sunny lowland rill,
Whose music tells of quietness and love?
—Alas! that man, whose hours are very brief,
Should seek to check the race that soon must end!
The roar of battle sunk to hollow moans
Far o'er the reeking field and fast he fled,
The haughty Chief of Hazor, Sisera,
From his benetted chariot, and alone,
Like a shunn'd leper, held his rapid way
Through the dark woods of Tabor. Ne'er before
Had Jabin's captain quail'd, though fearless foes
And mighty had come down upon his host,
Like an unbroken cataract; but now
The hero fled in panic haste, and oft
He shudder'd as he heard the victor shout
Behind; and then his proud o'ermaster'd heart
Fell in his bosom like the purple haze
Upon the desert pilgrim, while he thought
That spear and oxgoad had availed against
His archers, clad in armour, and the strength
Of iron chariots, drawn by barbed steeds.
Far o'er the reeking field and fast he fled,
The haughty Chief of Hazor, Sisera,
From his benetted chariot, and alone,
Like a shunn'd leper, held his rapid way
Through the dark woods of Tabor. Ne'er before
Had Jabin's captain quail'd, though fearless foes
And mighty had come down upon his host,
Like an unbroken cataract; but now
The hero fled in panic haste, and oft
He shudder'd as he heard the victor shout
Behind; and then his proud o'ermaster'd heart
Fell in his bosom like the purple haze
Upon the desert pilgrim, while he thought
That spear and oxgoad had availed against
His archers, clad in armour, and the strength
Of iron chariots, drawn by barbed steeds.
It is a bitter thing to see the pride
Of a high spirit thus cast down and crush'd
Beneath the darkness of its destiny;
The toil of years repaid, in one dark hour,
By scorn and infamy; the patient thought,
The watching and the weariness—the brunt
Of battle and the countless woes of war
All borne in vain; the lofty consciousness
Of high deserving mantled o'er with shame;
And he, who long hath been the battlement
Of his adoring country—in whose eye
The King hath read the oracles of war—
Whose serried falchion, like a glorious star,
Hath lighted oft the path of victory,
In one brief hour dethron'd from men's esteem,
And driven forth from his own place of pride—
An outcast—with a price upon his head!
Of a high spirit thus cast down and crush'd
Beneath the darkness of its destiny;
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By scorn and infamy; the patient thought,
The watching and the weariness—the brunt
Of battle and the countless woes of war
All borne in vain; the lofty consciousness
Of high deserving mantled o'er with shame;
And he, who long hath been the battlement
Of his adoring country—in whose eye
The King hath read the oracles of war—
Whose serried falchion, like a glorious star,
Hath lighted oft the path of victory,
In one brief hour dethron'd from men's esteem,
And driven forth from his own place of pride—
An outcast—with a price upon his head!
Dark was the soul of Sisera! His king
Had gazed upon him with an eye, whose light
Had shed its glory o'er his path! his brow
Had gleamed with victor radiance o'er the Chief;
And higher honours mark'd his last farewell.
The hoary seer of Ashtaroth had blessed
The warrior when he parted for the fight;
Maidens had scatter'd roses in his path,
And beardless boys before his war-horse run,
Shouting the name of Sisera! and now—
Nor slain nor victor! thus before the foe,
The sons of herdmen, hurrying like a bann'd
And outlaw'd thief! The Chief had recked of death
And feared it not; he had not thought of this!
Alas! he knew not, till this hour, how much
The human heart may bear—how darkly work
The mysteries of destiny—how low
The loftiest may be humbled, and the best
Stained, spurned and branded—sealed and garnered up
To meet the doom their pride seeks not to shun!
Had gazed upon him with an eye, whose light
Had shed its glory o'er his path! his brow
Had gleamed with victor radiance o'er the Chief;
And higher honours mark'd his last farewell.
The hoary seer of Ashtaroth had blessed
The warrior when he parted for the fight;
Maidens had scatter'd roses in his path,
And beardless boys before his war-horse run,
Shouting the name of Sisera! and now—
Nor slain nor victor! thus before the foe,
The sons of herdmen, hurrying like a bann'd
And outlaw'd thief! The Chief had recked of death
And feared it not; he had not thought of this!
Alas! he knew not, till this hour, how much
The human heart may bear—how darkly work
The mysteries of destiny—how low
The loftiest may be humbled, and the best
Stained, spurned and branded—sealed and garnered up
To meet the doom their pride seeks not to shun!
The mists of morn still linger'd in the vale,
That skirted the deep base of Tabor's height;
And hurriedly, through the dark mazes of the wood,
He fled and threw aside his casque and spear
And mail of many shekels, for his strength
Had sunk in the wild battle, where he wrought
The last deeds of his high renown—and now
What more could proven arms avail the Chief?
His glorious name was lost—his honour soiled—
His proud king's curse hung o'er him—and he heard
Low lurking catamites, around the throne,
Whisper disgrace and craven treachery!
Stung by the thought, he broke his gory sword,
And threw the blade dishonoured in the brook,
But kept the jewelled hilt, for there were words
And names of glorious import graven there!
He paused not e'en to quaff the lucid stream,
Or bathe his burning forehead—but kept on—
The mighty, though the fallen Sisera!
That skirted the deep base of Tabor's height;
And hurriedly, through the dark mazes of the wood,
He fled and threw aside his casque and spear
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Had sunk in the wild battle, where he wrought
The last deeds of his high renown—and now
What more could proven arms avail the Chief?
His glorious name was lost—his honour soiled—
His proud king's curse hung o'er him—and he heard
Low lurking catamites, around the throne,
Whisper disgrace and craven treachery!
Stung by the thought, he broke his gory sword,
And threw the blade dishonoured in the brook,
But kept the jewelled hilt, for there were words
And names of glorious import graven there!
He paused not e'en to quaff the lucid stream,
Or bathe his burning forehead—but kept on—
The mighty, though the fallen Sisera!
The warrior came to Jael's tent. His limbs
Were weary, and his mighty frame grew weak
In the despairing sickness of his heart.
With a fair faithlessness, the subtle wife
Of Heber wooed the warrior from his path,
Who nothing craved but safety and a cup
Of water from the fountain that gush'd forth
Amid the palm-grove, in whose centre stood
The Kenite's tent—upon the border land.
And he lay down within; the beaded dew
Of his soul's agony hung on his brow,
The arrow's bloody path was o'er his breast,
That heaved as it would burst in the wild war
Of master passions—blasted pride, and shame
That gasped for vengeance—and revenge that quailed
Before disgrace—and mocked the heart it seared.
The Ætna of the bosom never sleeps!
The fever of wild enterprize—the rush,
The roar of strife—the speed of hot pursuit
Or breathless flight, fill the proud heart with power
Even when the glory 's lost—but when the pause
Follows, and the discerning mind beholds
The universal ruin—the wild waste
Of all its honours—the disgrace, despair,
And desolation—it doth sink to sleep,
The oblivion of all hope, all human fear,
The only blessedness not reft away,
Like a sweet child that knoweth not a care.
Were weary, and his mighty frame grew weak
In the despairing sickness of his heart.
With a fair faithlessness, the subtle wife
Of Heber wooed the warrior from his path,
Who nothing craved but safety and a cup
Of water from the fountain that gush'd forth
Amid the palm-grove, in whose centre stood
The Kenite's tent—upon the border land.
And he lay down within; the beaded dew
Of his soul's agony hung on his brow,
The arrow's bloody path was o'er his breast,
That heaved as it would burst in the wild war
Of master passions—blasted pride, and shame
That gasped for vengeance—and revenge that quailed
Before disgrace—and mocked the heart it seared.
The Ætna of the bosom never sleeps!
The fever of wild enterprize—the rush,
The roar of strife—the speed of hot pursuit
Or breathless flight, fill the proud heart with power
Even when the glory 's lost—but when the pause
Follows, and the discerning mind beholds
The universal ruin—the wild waste
Of all its honours—the disgrace, despair,
385
The oblivion of all hope, all human fear,
The only blessedness not reft away,
Like a sweet child that knoweth not a care.
Though allied to the invaders of their rich
And pleasant heritage—their ancient lot—
Yet Heber long had flourished 'neath the smile
Of Hazor's king—nor wrong had he sustained,
Nor injury in word or deed. His days
Had glided on in peace since he had dwelt
In Harosheth of the nations, and his tent
Had found due honour in the wildest strife,
Nor had the deepest want unjustly snatched
An ewe lamb from his flock.—But, thro' all times
The open heart, the ready hand hath wrought
Woe to the giver, and confiding truth
Received a dark reward! Like a fair tree,
The evil flourish to a reverend age—
The good wear out their strength in early youth
And perish—and their memories are forgot!
—It is a sickening task to look abroad
This dark and evil world! high hearts must bleed
Beneath the torture—generous feelings turn
To anguish 'neath the infliction of the vile,
And the proud power of thought becomes a curse
Amid the meshes of men's villanies!
Thus it hath ever been—and Heaven's great name
Must bear the dark reflection of man's deeds,
For with its holiness he covereth them.
The warrior slumbered deeply—and the folds
Of his dark mantle quiver'd as the breath
Rushed forth, like a wild torrent, from a heart
Weary and worn and tried and broken now
When its proud pulse throbbed deepest. The orient morn
Was beautiful as dreams of other realms;
The palm was full of music, and the pine
Sent up mysterious melodies; the hues
Of the rich lotus and bright aloe glowed,
While from the soft green vale the mellow air
Stole through the tent and breathed upon the brow
Of Sisera as he slept!
And pleasant heritage—their ancient lot—
Yet Heber long had flourished 'neath the smile
Of Hazor's king—nor wrong had he sustained,
Nor injury in word or deed. His days
Had glided on in peace since he had dwelt
In Harosheth of the nations, and his tent
Had found due honour in the wildest strife,
Nor had the deepest want unjustly snatched
An ewe lamb from his flock.—But, thro' all times
The open heart, the ready hand hath wrought
Woe to the giver, and confiding truth
Received a dark reward! Like a fair tree,
The evil flourish to a reverend age—
The good wear out their strength in early youth
And perish—and their memories are forgot!
—It is a sickening task to look abroad
This dark and evil world! high hearts must bleed
Beneath the torture—generous feelings turn
To anguish 'neath the infliction of the vile,
And the proud power of thought becomes a curse
Amid the meshes of men's villanies!
Thus it hath ever been—and Heaven's great name
Must bear the dark reflection of man's deeds,
For with its holiness he covereth them.
The warrior slumbered deeply—and the folds
Of his dark mantle quiver'd as the breath
Rushed forth, like a wild torrent, from a heart
Weary and worn and tried and broken now
When its proud pulse throbbed deepest. The orient morn
Was beautiful as dreams of other realms;
The palm was full of music, and the pine
Sent up mysterious melodies; the hues
Of the rich lotus and bright aloe glowed,
386
Stole through the tent and breathed upon the brow
Of Sisera as he slept!
Jael drew near
With feathery footsteps, like a guilty thing,
And listened as she bent o'er the dark Chief.
Her starting eye did wander in wild fear,
A demon light was on her brow—her lips
Had that compression, which implies resolve
Of something terrible; upon her cheek,
'Mid corselike paleness, sat the hectic spot
Of the assassin—from the accusing heart
A fearful witness! and her coal-black hair
Fell in unequal clusters down her neck,
That had a swanlike curve, and, as she bent,
Dropped o'er her panting bosom.—She came near
And drew aside the covering from the face
Of the lost warrior chief, and on him gazed.
With feathery footsteps, like a guilty thing,
And listened as she bent o'er the dark Chief.
Her starting eye did wander in wild fear,
A demon light was on her brow—her lips
Had that compression, which implies resolve
Of something terrible; upon her cheek,
'Mid corselike paleness, sat the hectic spot
Of the assassin—from the accusing heart
A fearful witness! and her coal-black hair
Fell in unequal clusters down her neck,
That had a swanlike curve, and, as she bent,
Dropped o'er her panting bosom.—She came near
And drew aside the covering from the face
Of the lost warrior chief, and on him gazed.
Dark were the dreams of Sisera! His brow,
Scarred by the casque of war, and harrowed up
With many burning thoughts and sleepless cares,
Quivered convulsively; his sallow cheek
Was flushed by the last fever of his heart;
His mighty bosom rose and fell, like seas
When the great spirit of the tempest reigns;
His hand, still gauntletted, had grasped the hilt
Of his dishonour'd sabre, and his lips
Mutter'd strange words that sounded mournfully;
(His spirit fought the battle o'er again,
And he was struggling for the victory.)
Dark Sisera arose and drave his sword
Through the thick tent—and smiled; and then sunk down
As if it nought availed—and sighed like one
Whose hopes have vanished—whose despair is fixed,
And slumber'd yet more deeply—though the shades
Of thought passed o'er his warworn countenance
Like mountain shadows o'er a mirror'd lake.
Jael knelt down beside the chief, and drew
Aside his clustering locks, which toil and grief
Had changed from the dark beauty of his youth,
And, like a fiend, gazed on the chieftain.—Pause!
Woman! hast thou a son? There 's one afar
To whom that warrior's filial smile is dear!
E'en now she looketh for her child—her heart
Is trembling for her firstborn and her best!
Hast thou a boy, bann'd Jael?—Lo! her lips
Murmur—“My son shall judge the land for this,
“A glory to the nation of the Lord!”
(Thou Merciful! why dost thou spare the guilt,
That clothes itself in thine all spotless name?)
Lifting the fatal weapon, while her eye
Glowed with a wild ferocity, she drave,
At one quick blow, the iron through his brain.
Scarred by the casque of war, and harrowed up
With many burning thoughts and sleepless cares,
Quivered convulsively; his sallow cheek
Was flushed by the last fever of his heart;
His mighty bosom rose and fell, like seas
When the great spirit of the tempest reigns;
His hand, still gauntletted, had grasped the hilt
Of his dishonour'd sabre, and his lips
Mutter'd strange words that sounded mournfully;
(His spirit fought the battle o'er again,
And he was struggling for the victory.)
Dark Sisera arose and drave his sword
Through the thick tent—and smiled; and then sunk down
As if it nought availed—and sighed like one
Whose hopes have vanished—whose despair is fixed,
And slumber'd yet more deeply—though the shades
Of thought passed o'er his warworn countenance
Like mountain shadows o'er a mirror'd lake.
387
Aside his clustering locks, which toil and grief
Had changed from the dark beauty of his youth,
And, like a fiend, gazed on the chieftain.—Pause!
Woman! hast thou a son? There 's one afar
To whom that warrior's filial smile is dear!
E'en now she looketh for her child—her heart
Is trembling for her firstborn and her best!
Hast thou a boy, bann'd Jael?—Lo! her lips
Murmur—“My son shall judge the land for this,
“A glory to the nation of the Lord!”
(Thou Merciful! why dost thou spare the guilt,
That clothes itself in thine all spotless name?)
Lifting the fatal weapon, while her eye
Glowed with a wild ferocity, she drave,
At one quick blow, the iron through his brain.
Up, like a goaded lion, sprang the Chief!
The burning blood poured down his long dark beard,
And fell, like lava, on his bosom—still
His strength was equal to the deadly strife
Of man with man. But when the hero saw
A woman's triumph o'er him—when he felt
His uttermost disgrace—thus—thus to die
Alone, unhonoured, by a woman's hand,
Without a word, a signal, or a look,
He fell; his giant limbs relaxed—his head
Rolled on the earth—and his last quivering gasp
Went forth like an undying curse of doom.
The burning blood poured down his long dark beard,
And fell, like lava, on his bosom—still
His strength was equal to the deadly strife
Of man with man. But when the hero saw
A woman's triumph o'er him—when he felt
His uttermost disgrace—thus—thus to die
Alone, unhonoured, by a woman's hand,
Without a word, a signal, or a look,
He fell; his giant limbs relaxed—his head
Rolled on the earth—and his last quivering gasp
Went forth like an undying curse of doom.
So perished Hazor's pride! Oh, happier thus
To die, the mighty by the weak—the great
By the low dastard, than to live a scorn,
A blot, a loathing, an assassin host,
A dark-soul'd traitor! Jael! be thy name
A damned sound—a word that blasts the lips
Till the wild Arab doth a deed like thine!
To die, the mighty by the weak—the great
By the low dastard, than to live a scorn,
A blot, a loathing, an assassin host,
A dark-soul'd traitor! Jael! be thy name
A damned sound—a word that blasts the lips
Till the wild Arab doth a deed like thine!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |