And oft-times woman-faced and woman-haired
Would trail their snaky length, and curse and mourn;
Or there would wander up, when we were tired,
Dark troops of evil ones, with eyes morose,
Withstanding us, and staring;—­O! what ’vails
That in the dread deep forest we have fought
With following packs of wolves?  These men of might,
Even the giants, shall not hear the doom
My father came to tell them of.  Ah, me! 
If God indeed had sent him, would he lie
(For he is stricken with a sore disease)
Helpless outside their city?”
                                Then he rose,
And put aside the curtains of the tent,
To look upon his father’s face; and lo! 
The tent being dark, he thought that somewhat sat
Beside the litter; and he set his eyes
To see it, and saw not; but only marked
Where, fallen away from manhood and from power,
His father lay.  Then he came forth again,
Trembling, and crouched beside the dull red fire,
And murmured, “Now it is the second time: 
An old man, as I think (but scarcely saw). 
Dreadful of might.  Its hair was white as wool: 
I dared not look; perhaps I saw not aught,
But only knew that it was there:  the same
Which walked beside us once when he did pray.” 
And Japhet hid his face between his hands
For fear, and grief of heart, and weariness
Of watching; and he slumbered not, but mourned
To himself, a little moment, as it seemed,
For sake of his loved father:  then he lift
His eyes, and day had dawned.  Right suddenly
The moon withheld her silver, and she hung
Frail as a cloud.  The ruddy flame that played,
By night on dim, dusk trees, and on the flood,
Crept red amongst the logs, and all the world
And all the water blushed and bloomed.  The stars
Were gone, and golden shafts came up, and touched
The feathered heads of palms, and green was born
Under the rosy cloud, and purples flew
Like veils across the mountains; and he saw,
Winding athwart them, bathed in blissful peace,
And the sacredness of morn, the battlements
And out-posts of the giants; and there ran
On the other side the river, as it were,
White mounds of marble, tabernacles fair,
And towers below a line of inland cliff: 
These were their fastnesses, and here their homes.

In valleys and the forest, all that night,
There had been woe; in every hollow place,
And under walls, like drifted flowers, or snow,
Women lay mourning; for the serpent lodged
That night within the gates, and had decreed,
“I will (or ever I come) that ye drive out
The women, the abhorred of my soul.” 
Therefore, more beauteous than all climbing bloom,
Purple and scarlet, cumbering of the boughs,
Or flights of azure doves that lit to drink
The water of the river; or, new born,
The quivering butterflies in companies,
That slowly crept adown the sandy marge,