The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 1,299 pages of information about The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

FIFTH VOICE (within). 
Thou hast the power;
Thou doest what thou wilt.  Abide awhile,
And thou shalt see the power of God, and how
He will torment thee and thy seed.

THE MOTHER. 
O hasten;
Why dost thou pause?  Thou who hast slain already
So many Hebrew women, and hast hung
Their murdered infants round their necks, slay me,
For I too am a woman, and these boys
Are mine.  Make haste to slay us all,
And hang my lifeless babes about my neck.

SIXTH VOICE (within). 
Think not,
Antiochus, that takest in hand
To strive against the God of Israel,
Thou shalt escape unpunished, for his wrath
Shall overtake thee and thy bloody house.

THE MOTHER. 
One more, my Sirion, and then all is ended. 
Having put all to bed, then in my turn
I will lie down and sleep as sound as they. 
My Sirion, my youngest, best beloved! 
And those bright golden locks, that I so oft
Have curled about these fingers, even now
Are foul with blood and dust, like a lamb’s fleece,
Slain in the shambles.—­Not a sound I hear. 
This silence is more terrible to me
Than any sound, than any cry of pain,
That might escape the lips of one who dies. 
Doth his heart fail him?  Doth he fall away
In the last hour from God?  O Sirion, Sirion,
Art thou afraid?  I do not hear thy voice. 
Die as thy brothers died.  Thou must not live!

SCENE II. —­ THE MOTHER; ANTIOCHUS; SIRION,

THE MOTHER. 
Are they all dead?

ANTIOCHUS. 
Of all thy Seven Sons
One only lives.  Behold them where they lie
How dost thou like this picture?

THE MOTHER. 
God in heaven! 
Can a man do such deeds, and yet not die
By the recoil of his own wickedness? 
Ye murdered, bleeding, mutilated bodies
That were my children once, and still are mine,
I cannot watch o’er you as Rispah watched
In sackcloth o’er the seven sons of Saul,
Till water drop upon you out of heaven
And wash this blood away!  I cannot mourn
As she, the daughter of Aiah, mourned the dead,
From the beginning of the barley-harvest
Until the autumn rains, and suffered not
The birds of air to rest on them by day,
Nor the wild beasts by night.  For ye have died
A better death, a death so full of life
That I ought rather to rejoice than mourn.—­
Wherefore art thou not dead, O Sirion? 
Wherefore art thou the only living thing
Among thy brothers dead?  Art thou afraid?

ANTIOCHUS. 
O woman, I have spared him for thy sake,
For he is fair to look upon and comely;
And I have sworn to him by all the gods
That I would crown his life with joy and honor,
Heap treasures on him, luxuries, delights,
Make him my friend and keeper of my secrets,
If he would turn from your Mosaic Law
And be as we are; but he will not listen.

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The Complete Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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