LAMENTATION OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN. THY beauty, Israel, is fled, How are the valiant fallen! The slain Oh, let it not in Gath be known, Lest that sad story should excite Lest in the torrent of our woe Lest their triumphant daughters ring You hills of Gilboa, never may No mornig dew, nor fruitful showers, Saul and his arms there made a spoil, As if untoucht with sacred oil. The bow of noble Jonathan His arrows on the mighty fed, Saul never raised his arm in vain, How lovely, oh, how pleasant, when Than eagles swifter; stronger far Whom love in life so strangely tied, Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul; Lament his fall, Who fed you with the earth's increase, With robes of Tyrian purple deckt, How are thy worthies by the sword O Jonathan! the better part The savage rocks have drunk thy blood: Thy love was great; oh, nevermore To man, man bore! No woman when most passionate How are the mighty fallen in fight! DAVID ENAMOURED OF BETHSABE. WHAT tunes, what words, what looks, what wonders pierce My soul, incensed with a sudden fire! What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise, Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame! Fair Eva, placed in perfect happiness, Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens, Struck with the accents of archangels' tunes, Wrought not more pleasure to her husband's thoughts Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine. May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight, gold; And for the pebble, let the silver streams That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source, Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites; The brim let be embraced with golden curls Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make For joy to feed the fount with their recourse; Let all the grass that beautifies her bower Bear manna every morn, instead of dew; Or let the dew be sweeter far than that That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill, Or balm which trickled from old Aaron's beard. See, Cusay, see the flower of Israel, the boy An infant cherub, leaping as if used Of Bathsheba's-the hue and type of love, Rosy and passionate-and oh, the moist Unfathomable blue of his large eyes Gave out its light as twilight shows a star, And drew the heart of the beholder in! And this was like his mother. David's lips Moved with unutter'd blessings, and awhile With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his father's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bathsheba unstirr’d— So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down, She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan That from his lips all night broke fitfully, Had silenced with the daybreak; and a smile Or something that would fain have been a smile Play'd in his parted mouth; and though his lids Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes, His senses seemed all peacefully asleep, And Bathsheba in silence bless'd the morn That brought back hope to her! But when the king Heard not the voice of the complaining child, Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir But morning there-so welcomeless and still He groan'd and turn'd upon his face. The nights Had wasted; and the mornings come; and days Crept through the sky, unnumber'd by the king, Since the child sicken'd; and, without the door, Upon the bare earth prostrate, he had lain Listening only to the moans that brought And fill'd his prayer with agony. O To thy bright mercy-seat the way is far! How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on! And when the spirit, mournfully, at last, Kneels at thy throne, how cold, how distantly The comforting of friends falls on the ear The anguish they would speak to, gone to Thee. But suddenly the watchers at the door Rose up, and they who ministered within Crept to the threshold and look'd earnestly Where the king lay. And still, while Bathsheba Held the unmoving child upon her knees, The curtains were let down, and all came forth, And, gathering with fearful looks apart, Whispered together. And the king arose And gazed on them a moment, and with voice Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask'd, "Is the child dead?" They answer'd, "He is dead!" But when they look'd to see him fall again Upon his face, and rend himself and weep For, while the child was sick, his agony Would bear no comforters, and they had thought His heartstrings with the tidings must give way Behold! his face grew calm, and, with his robe Gather'd together like his kingly wont, He silently went in. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straighten'd for the grave; and, as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betray'd The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters. His helm was at his feet: his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, behind him: and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, |