Isha Cherioth

They say his sin was dark and deep,
Men shudder at his name —
They spurn at me because I weep,
They call my sorrow, shame.

I know not ! I remember well
Our city's native street,
The path — the olive trees — the dell
Where Cherioth's daughters meet:

And there, where clustering vineyards rest,
And palms look forth above,
He kindled in my maiden-breast
The glory of his love !

He left me — but with holier thought,
Bound for a mightier scene ;
In proud Capernaum's path he sought
The noble Nazarene !

They tell of treachery bought and sold —
Perchance their words be truth —
I only see the scenes of old ;
I hear his voice in youth.

And I sit, as Rizpah sate,
Where life and hope are fled,
I sought him not in happier state,
I will not leave my dead !

No ! I must weep, though all around
Be hatred and despair ;
One sigh shall soothe this fatal ground,
A Cherioth maiden's prayer !