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'Tis eve; and the tempest

Is rushing through heaven ; The oaks on the hills

By the lightnings are riven ; The rain in the valleys

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!

Now vengeance is near! Hark! the tramp of the warrior,

The clash of the spear ; For the Syrian is marching

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 :

No ear hears his tramp

In the Israelite camp: The hunters have driven

The prey to its lair.

“ Now, now, for the slaughter!”

The trumpet is blown;
Now woe to the temple,

And woe to the throne !
But no trumpet has answer'd,

No arrow has sprung,
No torch has been lighted,

No lance has been flung. They pour o'er the ramparts, The tents stand alone;

Through the gust and the haze

The watch-fires still blaze ; But the warriors of Israel .

Like shadows are gone!

Then spake the king's sorcerer ;

“ King, wouldest thou hear, How those Israelite wolves

Have escaped from thy spear;
Know, their prophet Elisha

Has spells to unbind
The words on thy lip,-
Nay, the thoughts in thy mind.
Though thy secret were deep

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. 'Tis eve; and the valleys

Are dropping with wine ; But no chieftain has tasted

The fruit of the vine. To Dothan the horseman And mail'd charioteer

Are speeding like fire:

Their banquet is ire, For the scorner of Syria,

Elisha, is there.

On the ramparts of Dothan,

At morning, was woe ; 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 :

“Jehovah, arise :

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

Shall Elisha be flung."

At the word rush'd a cloud

From the crown of the sky;
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?

Like a forest o'erblown,
In their ranks, as they stood,

Their thousands are strown.
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;

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