To Judith

Oh, Judith! had our lot been cast
In that remote and simple time
When, shepherd-swains, thy fathers past
From dreary wilds and deserts vast
To Judah’s happy clime, —

My song upon the mountain rocks
Had echoed of thy rural charms;
And I had fed thy father’s flocks,
O Judith of the raven locks!
To win thee to my arms.

Our tent beside the murmur calm
Of Jordan’s grassy-vested shore
Had sought the shadow of the palm,
And blessed with Gilead’s holy balm
Our hospitable door.

But oh, my love! thy father’s land
Presents no more a spicy bloom,
Nor fills with fruit the reaper’s hand, —
But wide its silent wilds expand,
A desert and a tomb!