With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds: and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water like a gentle nurse
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world.
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood
With his faint people, for a little space,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words. And as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full,-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery,-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!
He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,
Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom,-
For his estranged, misguided Absalom,--
The proud bright being who had burst away
In all his princely beauty, to defy
The heart that cherished him,-for him he poured
In agony, that would not be controlled,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there,
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath,
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air. His banner soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, beside him: and the jeweled hilt
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested like mockery on his covered brow.
The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,
Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief,
The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade,
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command
In a low tone to his few followers,
And left him with his dead. The king stood still
Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die,-
Thou who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom?
"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet 'My father' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!
"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come To meet me, Absolom!
"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin-oh! I could drink the cup
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer.
And as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
REBELLION-CROLY.
I had a vision: evening sat in gold
Upon the bosom of a boundless plain,
Covered with beauty:-garden, field, and fold,
Studding the billowy sweep of ripening grain,
Like islands in the purple summer main.
And temples of pure marble met the sun,
That tinged their white shafts with a golden stain;
And sounds of rustic joy, and labor done,
Hallowed the lovely hour, until her pomp was gone.
The plain was hushed in twilight, as a child
Slumbers beneath its slow-drawn canopy;
But sudden tramplings came, and voices wild,
And tossings of rude weapons caught the eye;
And on the hills, like meteors in the sky,
Burst sanguine fires; and ever and anon
To the clashed spears the horn gave fierce reply;
And round their beacons trooping thousands shone,
Then sank like evil things, and all was dark and
'Twas midnight: there was wrath in that wild heaven;
Earth was sepulchral dark. At once a roar
Pealed round the mountain-tops, like ocean driven Before the thunders on th' eternal shore:
Down rushed, as if a sudden earthquake tore
The bowels of the hills, a flood of fire:
Like lava, mingled spears and torches pour,
The plain is deluged; higher still and higher
Swell blood and flame, till all is like one mighty
'Twas dawn: and still the black and bloody smoke
Rolled o'er the champaign like a vault of stone;
But as the sun's slow wheels the barrier broke,
He lit the image of a fearful one,
Throned in the central massacre, alone-
An iron diadem upon his brow,
A naked lance beside him, that yet shone
Purple and warm with gore; and crouching low
All men in one huge chain, alike the friend and foe.
The land around him, in that sickly light,
Showed like th' upturning of a mighty grave; Strewn with crushed monuments and remnants
With faint, fond hand, the hurried burial gave,
Then died. The despot sat upon his throne,
Scoffing to see the stubborn traitors wave
At his least breath. The good and brave were gone To exile or the tomb. Their country's life was done.
COEUR DE LEON AT THE BIER OF
HIS FATHER-MRS. HEMANS.
Torches were blazing clear,
Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier
In the church of Fontevrault.
|