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, poured 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 crushed the fallen. Man is there; Majestic, lordly man, with his serene 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 curled 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 lighter than a tassel on his frame. His crest was Judah’s kingliest, and the look Of his dark, lofty eye and terrible brow, Might quell the lion. He led on; but thoughts Seemed gathering round which troubled him. The veins Upon his forehead were distinctly seen; And his proud lip was painfully compressed. 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 spiced aloe, and the clustering vines Which half concealed 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 recovered passages of dreams. He strode on rapidly. A moment more, And he had reached his home; when lo! there sprang One with a bounding footstep, and a brow Like 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 withered him. She threw Her arms about his neck; he heeded not. She called him ‘Father,’ but he answered not. She stood and gazed upon him. Was he wroth? There was no anger in that bloodshot eye. Had sickness seized him? She unclasped 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 rushed