NEAR Jabbok Ford, endued with sacred might,
The patriarch strove with one that silent came,
Obscurely limned against the twilight flame--
Strove thro' slow watches of the marvellous night!
"Ungird thine arms, for lo! 'tis morning light,"
Spake the weird stranger!--"nay, but grant the claim,
Made good thro' strife divine, and bless my name,
'Ere yet thou goest from doubtful clasp and sight!"
Thus Jacob, in the slowly ebbing swell
Of power and passion,--yearning still to mark
That wrestler's face between the dawn and dark:
Again, "wilt thou not bless me?" . . . yea! and yea!"
Dropped a still voice, what time the new-born day
Haloed an angel's head at Penuel!
