Sisera

Eyes seeking what the distance never brought,Strained through a lattice-window finely wrought—Sweet-smelling veil of woven cedar-wood.

Where the white pigeons lit, and softly cooed,Ere fluttering down to their accustomed foodIn the broad, marble, many-creviced court.

The brook of Kishon slowly reddening;The trailing chariot, and the bitter ringOf intercepted, swift-descending swords.The panting fugitive. The lying words,'Turn in; behold this tent, it is my lord's!'The cloak of camel's hair for safe shrouding.The lordly dish of butter, and the nail;The hammer in the nervous hand of Jael;The blow which crashed through temple and through brain.A sheet of summer lightning, and red rainAcross the sleeper's sight. A sense of painBut scarce begun ere sense and senses fail.The sand-fed sun, low-lying on the lands;The tent door curtained where a woman stands,And the unspoken: 'This is whom you seek.'The song of praise: 'The battle to the weak.Praise ye the Lord, who hath upheld the meek.The Lord who stayeth Israel in His hands.'