Page:Poems of Emma Lazarus vol 2.djvu/35

18 Not his the glory! He, maligned, misknown, Bows his meek head, and says, "Thy will be done!" the taper like the steadfast star Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth, And add each night a lustre till afar An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth. Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre. Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn; Chant psalms of victory till the heart takes fire, The Maccabean spirit leap new-born. Remember how from wintry dawn till night. Such songs were sung in Zion, when again On the high altar flamed the sacred light. And, purified from every Syrian stain. The foam-white walls with golden shields were hung, With crowns and silken spoils, and at the shrine, Stood, midst their conqueror-tribe, five chieftains sprung From one heroic stock, one seed divine. Five branches grown from Mattathias' stem, The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan,