[Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir a Christmas, New Year's and Birth Day Present for MDCCCXXXIII |
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SAMSON. |
 | [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir |  |
262
SAMSON.
There stands a pile in Gaza. Crowd on crowd
Have gathered 'neath its arches; and the hum
Of voiceful merriment re-echoes round.
With gorgeous pomp, lit by the golden sun,
In state luxurious and imposing, rest
The lords of the Philistines. Dagon's form
Swells, like some vast-proportioned statue, near,
And, blending earth's with ocean's wonders, ends
In folds voluminous along the ground.
O'er fretted shaft and architrave, are seen
Groups above groups, down-gazing, far beneath,
Where, like the surges of a stormy sea,
Gay multitudes are moving. Music sounds;
And laugh, and jeer, and shout, alternate rise.
Have gathered 'neath its arches; and the hum
Of voiceful merriment re-echoes round.
With gorgeous pomp, lit by the golden sun,
In state luxurious and imposing, rest
The lords of the Philistines. Dagon's form
Swells, like some vast-proportioned statue, near,
And, blending earth's with ocean's wonders, ends
In folds voluminous along the ground.
O'er fretted shaft and architrave, are seen
Groups above groups, down-gazing, far beneath,
Where, like the surges of a stormy sea,
Gay multitudes are moving. Music sounds;
And laugh, and jeer, and shout, alternate rise.
Who stands before the assemblage, still and sad,
With wrists all scarred, and arms in solemn guise
Folded, in listless sorrow, on his breast,
While sinks his head, as if awearied, there?
It is the Hebrew, Samson; girt by foes,
Worn with the fever of a prisoner's heart,
And by his griefs enfeebled. Late he stood,
Unshorn and full of strength, on Hebron's hill,
While bars and ponderous gates his shoulders bore,
Wrenched from proud Gaza's wall, when midnight clouds
Toiled with the moon for mastery in the sky.
Now, robbed of sight, he groped his way, and stood
Between the pillars of that mighty pile,
And heard, with troubled ear, the murmuring tones
That swelled, tumultuous, round him. Then, perchance,
His wandering thoughts the mazy days recalled,
When, through voluptuous hours, his eyes, ensnared,
Were bent upon the syren, by whose arts
He late had mourned in prison. Now, no more,
Her witching dalliance charmed: her form, no more,
Moved like a spell before him. He had woke,
From a poor vision of ephemeral joy,
To brazen fetters and a dungeon's gloom.
263
Folded, in listless sorrow, on his breast,
While sinks his head, as if awearied, there?
It is the Hebrew, Samson; girt by foes,
Worn with the fever of a prisoner's heart,
And by his griefs enfeebled. Late he stood,
Unshorn and full of strength, on Hebron's hill,
While bars and ponderous gates his shoulders bore,
Wrenched from proud Gaza's wall, when midnight clouds
Toiled with the moon for mastery in the sky.
Now, robbed of sight, he groped his way, and stood
Between the pillars of that mighty pile,
And heard, with troubled ear, the murmuring tones
That swelled, tumultuous, round him. Then, perchance,
His wandering thoughts the mazy days recalled,
When, through voluptuous hours, his eyes, ensnared,
Were bent upon the syren, by whose arts
He late had mourned in prison. Now, no more,
Her witching dalliance charmed: her form, no more,
Moved like a spell before him. He had woke,
From a poor vision of ephemeral joy,
To brazen fetters and a dungeon's gloom.
A pause amidst the mirth—as comes a calm
Before some sweeping storm—hath touched the crowd.
The sightless prisoner's lips in prayer are moved,
As 'midst the pillars of the pile he stands.
A pause,—and then a murmur, like the stir
Of subterranean winds and gathering waves
Which bodes the coming earthquake! Now hath dawned
The shorn one's hour of triumph!—for, above,
Around and underneath, like meeting seas,
A sound, which checks th' assembly's indrawn breath,
Peals on each listener's bent and earnest ear!
Mark, where the pillars tremble, as the man,
Whose arms embrace them, clothed in godlike strength,
Bends, in his ponderous effort, to and fro!
Now, look above:—and 'gainst ‘the wounded air,’
Transpierced with many a shriek and bitter groan,
See countless hands, in frenzied gesture raised
And supplication vain;—and mark, below,
The multitudes down-crouching, pale with dread
And shuddering, in the ague-chill of fear!
Now, yawn the yielding arches; and wild throngs
Spring from the breaking roof, delirious, down.
One stern, unbroken and resistless cry—
One crash of living thunder,—all is still.
264
The sightless prisoner's lips in prayer are moved,
As 'midst the pillars of the pile he stands.
A pause,—and then a murmur, like the stir
Of subterranean winds and gathering waves
Which bodes the coming earthquake! Now hath dawned
The shorn one's hour of triumph!—for, above,
Around and underneath, like meeting seas,
A sound, which checks th' assembly's indrawn breath,
Peals on each listener's bent and earnest ear!
Mark, where the pillars tremble, as the man,
Whose arms embrace them, clothed in godlike strength,
Bends, in his ponderous effort, to and fro!
Now, look above:—and 'gainst ‘the wounded air,’
Transpierced with many a shriek and bitter groan,
See countless hands, in frenzied gesture raised
And supplication vain;—and mark, below,
The multitudes down-crouching, pale with dread
And shuddering, in the ague-chill of fear!
Now, yawn the yielding arches; and wild throngs
Spring from the breaking roof, delirious, down.
One stern, unbroken and resistless cry—
One crash of living thunder,—all is still.
265
The sun hath set on Gaza: yet the west
Burns, with a vivid crimson, where the clouds,
In gold and purple, stretch their winglike folds
Up toward the sapphire ether. Night is near:
And from the ruins of the broken pile,
Where late the captive Hebrew strove and prayed,
There rise the echoes of some sufferer's groan
Yet numbered 'midst the living: faint and low,
They melt, at last, to silence.
Burns, with a vivid crimson, where the clouds,
In gold and purple, stretch their winglike folds
Up toward the sapphire ether. Night is near:
And from the ruins of the broken pile,
Where late the captive Hebrew strove and prayed,
There rise the echoes of some sufferer's groan
Yet numbered 'midst the living: faint and low,
They melt, at last, to silence.
Death is there!
And, as a shadow, broods above the scene,
While winds, like funeral anthems, wail around.
Look, once again! the clouds, but late so bright,
To shadowy forms have turned, and pall the sky;
O'er joy's sad wreck a saddening spell is shed,
And darkness shrouds old Gaza's lordly dead.
And, as a shadow, broods above the scene,
While winds, like funeral anthems, wail around.
Look, once again! the clouds, but late so bright,
To shadowy forms have turned, and pall the sky;
O'er joy's sad wreck a saddening spell is shed,
And darkness shrouds old Gaza's lordly dead.
W. G. C.
Philadelphia.
| [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir | |