On a Picture of Jephthah and His Daughter: In Continuation

What if the angry God hath made thy arm
Dread as the thunderbolt or solid fire,
Or pest obedient to his vengeful ire,
Think'st thou thy oath was like a wizard's charm,
Or hadst thou need, with proffer'd blood, to farm
Jehovah's might ? It proves thy faith unsure,
Thy creed idolatrous, thy heart impure ;
Thy god a greedy trafficker in harm,
Not Israel's hope. But she, thy daughter, mild.
Whose eager love and over-hasty greeting.
Has made thee murderer of thy blameless child,
Loves not the less for that unhappy meeting ; —
Guiltless she dies, to save thee from the guilt
Which must be thine, though her pure blood be spilt.