ELISHA IN DOTHAN. "TIs eve; and the tempest By the lightnings are riven; Falls heavy and chill, And the cataract bursts In the bed of the rill. Wild hour for the Syrian On Hermon's white brow; While the gust bears along The scoff and the song From Israel's proud tents In the forest below. 'Tis midnight, deep midnight! Through whirlwind and snow, On the revel of Judah To strike the death blow. His march is but lit By the tempest's red glare: Through the gust and the haze But the warriors of Israel Then spake the king's sorcerer; 66 King, wouldest thou hear, How those Israelite wolves Have escaped from thy spear; Know, their prophet Elisha Has spells to unbind As the grave, 'twould be known; The serpent has stings And the Vulture has wings; But he's serpent and vulture To thee and thy throne." "Sound the trumpet!" They rush Over mountain and plain. 'Tis noon, but no chieftain Has slacken'd the rein. To Dothan the horseman On the ramparts of Dothan, There fell the fierce hail Of the lance and the bow. And men rent their garments, And women their hair. But Elisha came forth From his chamber of prayer ; Like thunder his voice O'er the multitude roll'd: Pour the light on our eyes: Shew this people the shepherds Who watch o'er thy fold." The mountain horizon Was burning with light; On its brow stood the Syrian In glory and might. Proud toss'd to the sunbeam The banner's rich fold, Proud blazed the gemm'd turbans And corslets of gold. And loud rose the taunt Of the infidel's tongue : "Ho! Israelite slaves! This night sees your graves; And first from your walls At the word rush'd a cloud In its splendours the sun Seem'd to sicken and die. From its depths pour'd a host Upon mountain and plain. There was seen the starr'd helm, And the sky-tinctured vane; And the armour of fire, And the seraph's broad wing; But no eye-ball dared gaze On the pomp of the blaze, As their banner unfolded The name of their KING! But where are the foe? No banner is lifted, No chariot is wheel'd; To earth falls the lance, To earth falls the shield. There is terror before them, And terror behind. Now, proud homicide, Thou art smote in thy pride! The Syrian is captive; His host are struck blind; There were writhings of agony, Yells of despair, As if seeking the glare. And sorcerers shouting And the madness of brain. And groups of pale chieftains Awaiting in gloom, |