Page:A New Zealand verse (1906).pdf/275
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Jael.
239
Blessed for ever be Jael? Is it possible I can be blessed?
Am I a mother in Israel, a leader and sign for the people?
Am I not worthy? for mine is the hand that has slain the oppressor.
Mine is the hand. Yet a woman’s: a hand that has tended an infant,
Succoured the needy full oft, and divided the food to the hungry.
Pitiful ever to weakness. A lamb that was lost from its mother
Oft have they brought from the field, half dead with the cold and the terror;
Such would I lovingly tend, till the innocent creature reviving,
Paid with its grateful caresses the hand that had snatched it from famine.
Such have I once been—but now—has tenderness left me for ever?
O ye maidens who sing and rejoice in the things that ye know not,
Heedless of bloodshed and ruin, the manifold horror of battle,
Praising the valour of men steeped red in the stain of the slaughter,
Name me no more in your song, for my spirit is burdened with sorrow!
Not for his death I repent me. He died for the peace of my people;
Rightly he perished; yet woe to the treacherous soul of the slayer!
She who, forgetful of faith, and the pitiful spirit of woman,
Stained with the blood of a guest the hearth in whose safety he trusted.
Am I a mother in Israel, a leader and sign for the people?
Am I not worthy? for mine is the hand that has slain the oppressor.
Mine is the hand. Yet a woman’s: a hand that has tended an infant,
Succoured the needy full oft, and divided the food to the hungry.
Pitiful ever to weakness. A lamb that was lost from its mother
Oft have they brought from the field, half dead with the cold and the terror;
Such would I lovingly tend, till the innocent creature reviving,
Paid with its grateful caresses the hand that had snatched it from famine.
Such have I once been—but now—has tenderness left me for ever?
O ye maidens who sing and rejoice in the things that ye know not,
Heedless of bloodshed and ruin, the manifold horror of battle,
Praising the valour of men steeped red in the stain of the slaughter,
Name me no more in your song, for my spirit is burdened with sorrow!
Not for his death I repent me. He died for the peace of my people;
Rightly he perished; yet woe to the treacherous soul of the slayer!
She who, forgetful of faith, and the pitiful spirit of woman,
Stained with the blood of a guest the hearth in whose safety he trusted.