The wind bore on The leaden tramp of thousands. Clarion notes Rang sharply on the ear at intervals; And the low, mingled din of mighty hosts Returning from the battle, pour'd from far, Like the deep murmur of a restless sea. They came, as earthly conquerors always come, With blood and splendor, revelry and woe. The stately horse treads proudly--he hath trod The brow of death, as well. The chariot-wheels Of warriors roll magnificently on-- Their weight hath crush'd the fallen. _Man_ is there-- Majestic, lordly man--with his sublime And elevated brow, and godlike frame; Lifting his crest in triumph--for his heel Hath trod the dying like a wine-press down! The mighty Jephthah led his warriors on Through Mizpeh's streets. His helm was proudly set, And his stern lip curl'd slightly, as if praise Were for the hero's scorn. His step was firm, But free as India's leopard; and his mail, Whose _shekels_ none in Israel might bear, Was like a cedar's tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah's kingliest; and the look Of his dark, lofty eye, and bended brow, Might quell the lion. He led on, but thoughts Seem'd gathering round which troubled him. The veins Grew visible upon his swarthy brow, And his proud lip was press'd as if with pain. He trod less firmly; and his restless eye Glanced forward frequently, as if some ill He dared not meet, were there. His home was near; And men were thronging, with that strange delight They have in human passions, to observe The struggle of his feelings with his pride. He gazed intensely forward. The tall firs Before his tent were motionless. The leaves Of the sweet aloe, and the clustering vines Which half conceal'd his threshold, met his eye, Unchanged and beautiful; and one by one, The balsam, with its sweet-distilling stems, And the Circassian rose, and all the crowd Of silent and familiar things, stole up, Like the recover'd passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reach'd his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Of light to meet him. Oh how beautiful!-- Her dark eye flashing like a sun-lit gem-- And her luxuriant hair!--'twas like the sweep Of a swift wing in visions. He stood still, As if the sight had wither'd him. She threw Her arms about her neck--he heeded not. She call'd him "Father"--but he answer'd not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that blood-shot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasp'd his helm, And laid her white hand gently on his brow, And the large veins felt stiff and hard, like cords. The touch aroused him. He raised up his hands. And spoke the name of God, in agony. She knew that he was stricken, then, and rush'd Again into his arms; and, with a flood Of tears she could not bridle, sobb'd a prayer That he would breathe his agony in words.