In store. Is burdened Israel his grief? Receives the promise first from heaven. She saw Pensive, alone she sat within the house, When busy day was fading, and calm evening, From the forsaken east, and drew the curtains of heaven. Pensive she sat, and thought on Israel's grief, An angel from the fields of light entered the house. And from his spacious brow shot terrors through the evening shade. But mild he hailed her-' Hail, highly favoured!' said he ; 'For lo! thou shalt conceive, and bear a son, And Israel's strength shall be upon his shoulders, And he shall be called Israel's Deliverer. Now, therefore, drink no wine, and eat not any unclean thing, For he shall be a Nazarite to God.' Then, as a neighbour, when his evening tale is told, Departs, his blessing leaving, so seemed he to depart: She wondered with exceeding joy, nor knew he was an angel. Manoa left his fields to sit in the house, And take his evening's rest from labour The sweetest time that God has allotted mortal man. He sat, and heard with joy, And praised God, who Israel still doth keep. Then prayed Manoa : 'O Lord, thy flock is scattered on the hillsThe wolf teareth them; Oppression stretches his rod over our land; Our country is ploughed with swords, and reaped in blood; The echoes of slaughter reach from hill to hill; The Philistine riots on our flocks, Our vintage is gathered by bands of enemies! Stretch forth thy hand and save.'-Thus prayed Manoa. The aged woman walked into the field, And lo! again the angel came, Clad as a traveller fresh risen on his journey. She ran and called her husband, who came and talked with him. 'O man of God,' said he, 'thou com'st from far! Let us detain thee while I make ready a kid, That thou mayst sit and eat, and tell us of thy name and warfare; That, when thy sayings come to pass, we may honour thee.' The angel answered, 'My name is Wonderful; But if thou wilt, offer an offering unto the Lord."" O THOU, to whose fury the nations are But as dust maintain thy servant's right. Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear, And forged helm, and shield of seven-times beaten brass Are idle trophies of the vanquisher. When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame, Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle. Their minds are fettered; then how can they be free? While, like the mounting flame, We spring to battle o'er the floods of death! And thou, my son, be strong; thou fightest for a crown That death can never ravish from thy brow A crown of glory-but from thy very dust |