 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
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JAEL.
Then Jael, Heber's wife, took a nail of the tent, and took a hammer in her hand, and went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.—
Judges, iv. 21.
Praise me with shawn and cymbal, chant my fame,
Barak and Deborah, till the high Lord hears.
From Zaänáim, sounding along the lands,
Past Tabor even to Ephraim let the name
Of Jael, wife of Heber, echo in song.
Lo, I have merited the applauding voice
Of prophetess and conqueror; I have won
Justly my loud renown—and purchased it
With deep unspeakable heart-pangs of wild pain!
Barak and Deborah, till the high Lord hears.
From Zaänáim, sounding along the lands,
Past Tabor even to Ephraim let the name
Of Jael, wife of Heber, echo in song.
Lo, I have merited the applauding voice
Of prophetess and conqueror; I have won
Justly my loud renown—and purchased it
With deep unspeakable heart-pangs of wild pain!
Praise me, and bid the people praise, and call me
Deliveress of Israel, having wrought
Death to the invincible and tyrannous.
Praise me that spared not, pitied not and smote;
Praise me that murdered righteously, that am
Glorious among all Hebrew womankind
For evermore. Praise me, yet praise aloof,
And hither send no curious messengers,
Bidding me join your jubilant sacrifice,
Your minstrelsy, your clamor of triumph. Close
I have drawn the curtains of my tent and shut
Heaven's vague supremities and the twilight moon,
Palm-gilding, from mine eyes. I would that doors
Of massive metal dulled your grateful songs
To me, lying prone, veiled with my loosened hair,
An agony in my thoughts and loathing life!
Deliveress of Israel, having wrought
Death to the invincible and tyrannous.
Praise me that spared not, pitied not and smote;
Praise me that murdered righteously, that am
Glorious among all Hebrew womankind
For evermore. Praise me, yet praise aloof,
And hither send no curious messengers,
Bidding me join your jubilant sacrifice,
Your minstrelsy, your clamor of triumph. Close
I have drawn the curtains of my tent and shut
Heaven's vague supremities and the twilight moon,
Palm-gilding, from mine eyes. I would that doors
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To me, lying prone, veiled with my loosened hair,
An agony in my thoughts and loathing life!
Have I not battled against my sin, O God,
And battled bravely? Father, am I not
Wrestler with that fierce passion which had coiled
About the immaculate column, fold by fold,
Of wifehood's beauteous chastity? Why, then,
Having so risen against myself and hurled
To the dust my baser part, can I not gain
Quiet of soul for recompense? O Lord,
Wherefore should this unholy love live on?
Whence this untamable longing to undo
Mine act?—this grief defiant of mastery?—
This weariness of self-hatred, whence, O Lord?
And battled bravely? Father, am I not
Wrestler with that fierce passion which had coiled
About the immaculate column, fold by fold,
Of wifehood's beauteous chastity? Why, then,
Having so risen against myself and hurled
To the dust my baser part, can I not gain
Quiet of soul for recompense? O Lord,
Wherefore should this unholy love live on?
Whence this untamable longing to undo
Mine act?—this grief defiant of mastery?—
This weariness of self-hatred, whence, O Lord?
Nay, Father, have I once yielded to my love?
Did not my indignant spirit from the first
Cry out against it? Wakening after dreams
Of guilty impetuous worship, night by night
While Heber slept have I not stolen unheard
To part the tapestries, and gone forth and met
The large white stars of Israel, and made,
With suppliant arms and tears and back-thrown head,
Kneeling, my lamentation? Verily
Thou knowest, O God, I have done this thing; nay, too,
Thou knowest of how the quick pulse ruled my heart
When Sisera was near, yet how I have made
Face, form, and gesture one cold courtesy
Of decorous matronhood severely pure,
Acting until the last my virtuous lie,
Feeling the insolent animal in my veins
Gnaw at its bonds with fiery teeth. ... And when,
Wounded and weak, I saw him stand to-day,
Bloody from horrible carnage, by the tent,
Thou knowest, O God, what yearning thrilled my breast
To hide, to save, even die befriending him;
Yet how with sternest afterthought I crushed
This eagerness, trampled, scorned it, and became
Guileful to bid him enter and fear not.
Did not my indignant spirit from the first
Cry out against it? Wakening after dreams
Of guilty impetuous worship, night by night
While Heber slept have I not stolen unheard
To part the tapestries, and gone forth and met
The large white stars of Israel, and made,
With suppliant arms and tears and back-thrown head,
Kneeling, my lamentation? Verily
Thou knowest, O God, I have done this thing; nay, too,
Thou knowest of how the quick pulse ruled my heart
When Sisera was near, yet how I have made
Face, form, and gesture one cold courtesy
Of decorous matronhood severely pure,
Acting until the last my virtuous lie,
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Gnaw at its bonds with fiery teeth. ... And when,
Wounded and weak, I saw him stand to-day,
Bloody from horrible carnage, by the tent,
Thou knowest, O God, what yearning thrilled my breast
To hide, to save, even die befriending him;
Yet how with sternest afterthought I crushed
This eagerness, trampled, scorned it, and became
Guileful to bid him enter and fear not.
And yet Thou knowest, O Father, when he sank
Heavily on yonder couch of leopard-skins
And made his moan for water and turned his eyes
In pleading up to mine, how pity urged
My unwilling hands to kindly offices.
And then, and only then, for a little time
(Thou knowest, O God, 'twas but a little time!)
I served him, love being dominant, and stood
To watch him sleep tired sleep, athirst no more.
And then, and only then, for a little time,
(For a little time, O God, Thou knowest well!)
I fed the insatiate hunger of my look
With all his marvellous beauty, grace and strength:
The brow's white loftiness, the shadowing sweep
Of silken eyelash, the dark plenteous beard
Just curling about his grand firm-corded throat,
The vigorous majesties of girth and build
And eminent stature and heroic arms
And all that makes the manliness of a man!
For a little time, O God, for a little time! ...
And then Thou knowest how sharp a serpent-sting,
After that one wild wanton moment, pierced
My bosom, and how I rose and hid my face,
Remembering I was Jael, mother and wife;
While to my ears the imagined mockery
Of those who might have spoken it, had they known,
Sounded: “Lo, she, the austerely blameless, loves
Jabin's dread captain, wronger of women, base,
Impious, a despot in the land!” ...
Sing on,
Barak and Deborah, bless the Kenite's wife,
Who thrust the deadly nail in Sisera's brow,
Who strove to free not Israel, but herself,
Who failed, and feels the unholy love yet live,
And who now mourns the irreparable deed,
Lying prone in her self-hatred and despair!
O guessing not of her misery and shame,
Sing to her praise, flute-throated prophetess,
And thou, too, strong son of Abínoam, sing,—
While Jael hears, the accursed, the comfortless!
Heavily on yonder couch of leopard-skins
And made his moan for water and turned his eyes
In pleading up to mine, how pity urged
My unwilling hands to kindly offices.
And then, and only then, for a little time
(Thou knowest, O God, 'twas but a little time!)
I served him, love being dominant, and stood
To watch him sleep tired sleep, athirst no more.
And then, and only then, for a little time,
(For a little time, O God, Thou knowest well!)
I fed the insatiate hunger of my look
With all his marvellous beauty, grace and strength:
The brow's white loftiness, the shadowing sweep
Of silken eyelash, the dark plenteous beard
Just curling about his grand firm-corded throat,
The vigorous majesties of girth and build
And eminent stature and heroic arms
And all that makes the manliness of a man!
For a little time, O God, for a little time! ...
And then Thou knowest how sharp a serpent-sting,
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My bosom, and how I rose and hid my face,
Remembering I was Jael, mother and wife;
While to my ears the imagined mockery
Of those who might have spoken it, had they known,
Sounded: “Lo, she, the austerely blameless, loves
Jabin's dread captain, wronger of women, base,
Impious, a despot in the land!” ...
Sing on,
Barak and Deborah, bless the Kenite's wife,
Who thrust the deadly nail in Sisera's brow,
Who strove to free not Israel, but herself,
Who failed, and feels the unholy love yet live,
And who now mourns the irreparable deed,
Lying prone in her self-hatred and despair!
O guessing not of her misery and shame,
Sing to her praise, flute-throated prophetess,
And thou, too, strong son of Abínoam, sing,—
While Jael hears, the accursed, the comfortless!
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