II. There where thy finger scorched the tablet stone! There where thy shadow to thy people shone! Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: Thyself—none living see and not expire! III. Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear! Sweep from his shivered hand the oppressor's spear: How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod! How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God! JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. I. SINCE Our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire! Demand that thy Daughter expire; Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now! II. And the voice of my mourning is o'er, And the mountains behold me no more: If the hand that I love lay me low, There cannot be pain in the blow! III. And of this, oh, my Father! be sure That the blood of thy child is as pure |