LAMENT OF THE VIRGINS.

And it was a custom in Israel, that the

daughters of Israel went yearly to lament

the daughter of Jephtha, the Gileadite,

four days in a year. Judges, xi. 40.

1.

Oh, of dance and song the pride,

Jephtha’s daughter, young and fair,

Never now the wreath of bride,

Ne’er the bridal veil shall wear!

Ne’er with cymbals light advancing,

Shall she greet her true love home,

Never in the valleys dancing,

Bound like Ocean’s purest foam.

Never shall she whisper—never,

Vows that bind the Hebrew maid;

Hers from all the world to sever,

Hers the hermit cell and shade.

2.

Oh, of song and dance the pride,

Jephtha’s daughter, young and fair;

She should be a hero’s bride,

She a hero son should bear.

But her fortune is another,

She shall ne’er love’s worship know;

Ne’er a babe shall call her mother,

Nestled on her breast of snow;

She hath gone from spring and fountain;

She hath vanished from the rills;

Lone she wanders on the mountain,

And her home is on the hills.

3.

Oh, of dance and song the pride,

Jephtha’s daughter, young and fair,

In the mount she must abide,

And her virgin vestments wear.

There her foot that bounded lightly,

Faint with maiden step shall go;

And her dance that was so sprightly,

To a pensive gliding grow.

She shall bend ’mid caverns praying,

Like a flower that trembles there,

While anear the wild fox baying,

Breaks alone the silent air.

4.

Oh, of song and dance the pride,

Jephtha’s daughter, young and fair;

Angels with her shall abide,

Angels smile upon her prayer.

Angels there shall be her lovers,

In such love as angels use;

While each wing that o’er her hovers,

Sheds around celestial dews;

Angels there, that cheer her sighing,

Shall her loneliness beguile,

And the wings that shade her dying,

Waft her to the happy isle.

5.

Oh, of dance and song the pride,

Jephtha’s daughter, young and fair;

Weep for her that doth abide

On the lonely mountain there.

Many flowers like her have perished

E’er their scented buds could ope;

But no flower was e’er so cherished,

Ne’er like her a hero’s hope.

Many maids have gone to slaughter,

But they ne’er so lovely were:

Weep, oh weep for Jephtha’s daughter,

Weep ye lovely, weep for her.