Memoir and remains of the Rev. James D. Burns ... By the late Rev. James Hamilton [i.e. J. D. Burns] |
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THE DAUGHTER OF JEPHTHAH TO HER FATHER. |
 | Memoir and remains of the Rev. James D. Burns |  |
THE DAUGHTER OF JEPHTHAH TO HER FATHER.
My father! tears are in thine eye,
Thy manly bosom heaves with sadness,
O why should household agony
Profane the day of Israel's gladness?
Let not one thought of me alloy
The festive time with fruitless sorrow;
Be this a day of sacred joy,
And think of me, and weep to-morrow!
Thy manly bosom heaves with sadness,
O why should household agony
Profane the day of Israel's gladness?
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The festive time with fruitless sorrow;
Be this a day of sacred joy,
And think of me, and weep to-morrow!
I came to meet thee with my peers,
Our timbrels rang to choral dances,
I saw afar the gleam of spears,
And sought thee out with anxious glances.
And soon I found thee, but thy brow
Grew dark to thy beloved's greeting,
I knew not then, as now I know,
What made it such a mournful meeting.
Our timbrels rang to choral dances,
I saw afar the gleam of spears,
And sought thee out with anxious glances.
And soon I found thee, but thy brow
Grew dark to thy beloved's greeting,
I knew not then, as now I know,
What made it such a mournful meeting.
Alas! I then had little thought
That meeting was our life-long parting—
That nature's love, which in me wrought
That impulse, passionately starting,
Had stung my father's heart with pain,
Had made him curse his bitter error,—
Yet were it all to do again,
My love would overcome my terror.
That meeting was our life-long parting—
That nature's love, which in me wrought
That impulse, passionately starting,
Had stung my father's heart with pain,
Had made him curse his bitter error,—
Yet were it all to do again,
My love would overcome my terror.
Now time is fading from my view—
Slow opens death its gloomy portal;
I mourn not that my days are few,—
For on me breaks a light immortal,—
I grieve that thou art left alone,
That through these darkening years another
Must do for thee what I had done,
And she no daughter of my mother.
Slow opens death its gloomy portal;
I mourn not that my days are few,—
For on me breaks a light immortal,—
I grieve that thou art left alone,
That through these darkening years another
Must do for thee what I had done,
And she no daughter of my mother.
O lay me where—beside the palm
In yonder vale—my mother sleepeth,
Where, blowing from the groves of balm,
The evening wind so softly creepeth.
And thou wilt sometimes, with a sigh,
Remember her who loved thee dearly;
What quench'd the brightness of her eye,
And made her sun go down so early.
In yonder vale—my mother sleepeth,
Where, blowing from the groves of balm,
The evening wind so softly creepeth.
And thou wilt sometimes, with a sigh,
Remember her who loved thee dearly;
What quench'd the brightness of her eye,
And made her sun go down so early.
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I go, a virgin sacrifice,
To stand before Death's purple altar:
And bind no fillet round mine eyes,
Though thou must strike, I will not falter;
The blood that fills my veins is thine,
And I were not my father's daughter
Did I not make his honour mine,
And pour it on the earth like water!
To stand before Death's purple altar:
And bind no fillet round mine eyes,
Though thou must strike, I will not falter;
The blood that fills my veins is thine,
And I were not my father's daughter
Did I not make his honour mine,
And pour it on the earth like water!
| Memoir and remains of the Rev. James D. Burns | |