Andrew Ramsay
Jephtha’s Daughter
AFTER her bath, yet early in the day,
She donned a ketonet or tunica;
With gems enclasped it, close as a caress,
And smoothed its folds out o’er her loveliness
In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made
Of Persian satin, opaline and white,
Like moving mists around the moon arrayed,
Thro’ which she shone, a lovelier light in light
Almost immortal: on a low divan
A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian,
Alone reclining, on each pliant knee
Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be.
The sandal buckles were with gems aflame,
And those fine bands that bound each knee the same.
On restless anklets tinkled bells of gold,
A symbol which of princely lineage told.
Their music summoning a tiring maid
Who all her glorious midnight hair arrayed:
A purple black it was, alive and long,
And seemed, if such could be, like a carved song,
Some Hebrew pæan of triumphant power
Arrested, and remaining her rare dower.
’Twas girt in frequent fillets of fine gold,
Bestarred with sardon flashing manifold.
And o’er her shoulders, exquisitely graced,
A sedijin, encircled at the waist.
This sedijin was sleeveless, but both arms
Had aspen bands that blazed in jasper charms.
Her zone was also wonderful with these,
As round her neck a circlet, carved to please
In imitated foliage of lush hues
Such as Ezekiel sanctified for use.
And over these, with garnet bangles hung
And opaline, a splendid shimla clung,
Marvel of strangely interfusing sheen,
And beautiful as all that might have been.
A little scarf of white and henna dyes
Crowned her dark head for dreadful sacrifice.
Pensive her oriental eyes, and large,
Looking their last on Judah’s hills, the charge
Of Israel’s honor in them, and the praise
Of many a maid desponding since those days
When Jephtha’s daughter wended forth to mourn
Her immature virginity forlorn.
I Will Not Tell
I WILL not tell thee why the land
With so much glory glows;
There is but one in all the world
My sacred secret knows.
O, she is fairer than the flowers
Of rosy June or May,
When every bird is singing near
And every blossom gay!
I asked her eyes to let their beams
Make life supremely grand:
Their answer like a flood of light
Flushed all the flowery land.
The sunbeams gleamed among the grass,
Warm-waving in the breeze,
A new life gladdened every bloom,
More vivid grew the trees.
I shall not tell thee why the land
With so much glory glows;
There is but one in all the world
My sacred secret knows.
Atkinson’s Mill
THIS river of azure with many a weed in
Comes far from the past as those famous of old;
Its dawns are the same as made blossoms in Eden,
And still it remembers their crimson and gold.
As vivid this valley with forests around it,
And low, waving evergreens shading the hill,
But color has gone from the cottage that crowned it—
The alders have faded by Atkinson’s mill.
This stream is the same with its tinting of azure,
Yet the old bridge is moved from its mooring of stone;
Departed are those who once made it a pleasure
To sail here, or skate when the summer had gone.
This pathway through cedar is trampled no longer
By feet that went daily to school ’gainst their will;
The fragrance of hope in the springtime is stronger
And sweeter than summer by Atkinson’s mill.
No more will the big wheel revolve with a clatter,
No more the bolts turn with a turbulent clank,
Nor down the dim flume rush the wonderful water
To burst forth in foam by the green-colored bank.
The blue flag has gone from the shore that we cherish,
The song of the gray bird in autumn is still,
Yet memory kindles the blossoms that perish
Like hope that was happy by Atkinson’s mill.