He strains every nerve--he redoubles his speed, And strength is supplied in the moment of need, The race is for life--and the city is won, Ere its broad towers reflect the first beams of the sun.--
One proud glance of triumph the fugitive threw On the band of pursuers that burst on his view, He shook his clenched hand--and a tremulous cry Rose and died on his pale lips their wrath to defy; But the effort, too mighty, has severed in twain His heart-strings--he staggers and sinks to the plain, And the cold dews that moisten that toil-crimsoned face Tell that death claims his victim, the prize of the race, That the city no refuge to guilt can afford-- He has found an Avenger of Blood in the Lord!
Who are ye, who through the night Onward urge your desperate flight? Far and wide the hills repeat The hurried tread of armed feet, Ringing helm and dying groan, The crash of chariots overthrown, And muttered curse and menace dire, As warriors in their rage expire. From the vengeance of the Lord, From the terrors of the sword, From Karkor's field, with slaughter red, Have Zebah and Zalmunna fled.
He who checked their haughty boast, Hard upon that flying host Presses, with avenging spear Flashing on their scattered rear: Nor can hills of slaughter tire The pursuer's burning ire; Still along the hills are poured Shouts of "Gideon and the Lord."
Morning spread her wings of light O'er the sable couch of night: Back the shades of darkness rolled, Glowed the purple east with gold, And the young day's rosy glance Gleamed on broken helm and lance, Ere the fearful chase was won, Ere the fierce pursuit was done, Or the slayer staid his hand, Or the warrior sheathed his brand, Or rested from the sanguine toil, Or paused to share the princely spoil, And pealed along the host the cry, "The Lord hath won the victory!"
Lo! Zebah and Zalmunna come, Unheralded by trump or drum; Harp and timbrel now are mute, Cymbal loud and softer flute. And where are they, the bands that rent At morn with shouts the firmament? Like clods, far stretched o'er plain and hill, Their limbs are stiff, their lips are still! Broken is the arm of war; Quenched in night is Midian's star!
Hot with toil, and stained with blood, Yet still in spirit unsubdued, To the champion of the Lord Midian's princes yield the sword. Pomp and power, and crown and life, All were staked on that fell strife: All are lost!--yet still they bear A monarch's pride in their despair; A warrior's pride, that will not yield Though vanquished on the battle-field.