ABSALOM.
The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung lowOn Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curledTheir glassy rings beneath it, like the stillUnbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves,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 wayAnd leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.How strikingly the course of nature tells,By its light heed of human suffering,That it was fashioned for a perfect world!King David’s limbs were weary. He had fledFrom far Jerusalem, and now he stoodWith his faint people for a little restUpon the shore of Jordan. The light windOf morn was stirring, and he bared his browTo its refreshing breath; for he had wornThe mourner’s covering, and he had not feltThat he could see his people until now.They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,And spoke their kindly words; and as the sunRose 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 thoughtsCome crowding thickly up for utterance,And the poor common words of courtesyAre such a very mockery, how muchThe bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!He prayed for Israel; and his voice went upStrongly and fervently; he prayed for thoseWhose love had been his shield; and his deep tonesGrew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!For his estranged, misguided Absalom—The proud, bright being who had burst away,In all his princely beauty, to defyThe heart that cherished him—for him he poured,In agony that would not be controlled,Strong supplication, and forgave him thereBefore his God, for his deep sinfulness.The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gateSat David, as the glittering thousands passedForth to the battle. With a troubled eyeHe looked upon their pomp, and as the helmsBent low before him, and the banners swayedLike burnished wings to do him reverence,His look grew restless, and he did not wearThe lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.The leader of the host came by. His formWas like a son of Anak, and he strodeMajestically on, and bore his crestAs men were waters, and his frame a rock.The king rose up to Joab, and came near,As his tall helm was bowed; and by the loveHe bore his master, he besought him thereThat he would spare him Absalom alive.He passed with his stern warriors on; the trumpAnd the loud cymbal died upon the ear;And as the king turned off his weary gaze,The last faint gleam had vanished, and the woodOf Ephraim had received a thousand men,To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.The pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave; and as the foldsSunk to the still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom.His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curlsWere floating round the tassels as they swayedTo the admitted air, as glossy nowAs when in hours of gentle dalliance bathingThe snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiledWith trailing through Jerusalem, was laidReversed beside him; and the jewelled 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 his bierAnd gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,As if he feared the slumberer might stir.A slow step startled him. He grasped his bladeAs if a trumpet rang; but the bent formOf David entered, and he gave commandIn a low tone to his few followers,And left him with his dead. The king stood stillTill the last echo died; then throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him, and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe.‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst 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 chillWhen to my bosom I would try 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 dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!‘The grave hath won thee; I shall hear the gushOf 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 comeTo meet me, Absalom!‘And oh! when I am stricken, and my heartLike a bruised reed is waiting to be broken;How will its love for thee, as I depart,Long for thine ear to catch its dying 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 erring Absalom!’He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child; then giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer;And as a strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly, and composed the pallAbout him decently, and left him thereAs if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung lowOn Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curledTheir glassy rings beneath it, like the stillUnbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves,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 wayAnd leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.How strikingly the course of nature tells,By its light heed of human suffering,That it was fashioned for a perfect world!King David’s limbs were weary. He had fledFrom far Jerusalem, and now he stoodWith his faint people for a little restUpon the shore of Jordan. The light windOf morn was stirring, and he bared his browTo its refreshing breath; for he had wornThe mourner’s covering, and he had not feltThat he could see his people until now.They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,And spoke their kindly words; and as the sunRose 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 thoughtsCome crowding thickly up for utterance,And the poor common words of courtesyAre such a very mockery, how muchThe bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!He prayed for Israel; and his voice went upStrongly and fervently; he prayed for thoseWhose love had been his shield; and his deep tonesGrew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!For his estranged, misguided Absalom—The proud, bright being who had burst away,In all his princely beauty, to defyThe heart that cherished him—for him he poured,In agony that would not be controlled,Strong supplication, and forgave him thereBefore his God, for his deep sinfulness.The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gateSat David, as the glittering thousands passedForth to the battle. With a troubled eyeHe looked upon their pomp, and as the helmsBent low before him, and the banners swayedLike burnished wings to do him reverence,His look grew restless, and he did not wearThe lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.The leader of the host came by. His formWas like a son of Anak, and he strodeMajestically on, and bore his crestAs men were waters, and his frame a rock.The king rose up to Joab, and came near,As his tall helm was bowed; and by the loveHe bore his master, he besought him thereThat he would spare him Absalom alive.He passed with his stern warriors on; the trumpAnd the loud cymbal died upon the ear;And as the king turned off his weary gaze,The last faint gleam had vanished, and the woodOf Ephraim had received a thousand men,To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.The pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave; and as the foldsSunk to the still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom.His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curlsWere floating round the tassels as they swayedTo the admitted air, as glossy nowAs when in hours of gentle dalliance bathingThe snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiledWith trailing through Jerusalem, was laidReversed beside him; and the jewelled 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 his bierAnd gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,As if he feared the slumberer might stir.A slow step startled him. He grasped his bladeAs if a trumpet rang; but the bent formOf David entered, and he gave commandIn a low tone to his few followers,And left him with his dead. The king stood stillTill the last echo died; then throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him, and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe.‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst 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 chillWhen to my bosom I would try 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 dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!‘The grave hath won thee; I shall hear the gushOf 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 comeTo meet me, Absalom!‘And oh! when I am stricken, and my heartLike a bruised reed is waiting to be broken;How will its love for thee, as I depart,Long for thine ear to catch its dying 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 erring Absalom!’He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child; then giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer;And as a strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly, and composed the pallAbout him decently, and left him thereAs if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung lowOn Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curledTheir glassy rings beneath it, like the stillUnbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves,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 wayAnd leaned in graceful attitudes to rest.How strikingly the course of nature tells,By its light heed of human suffering,That it was fashioned for a perfect world!
The waters slept. Night’s silvery veil hung low
On Jordan’s bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper’s pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream. The willow leaves,
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 attitudes to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a perfect world!
King David’s limbs were weary. He had fledFrom far Jerusalem, and now he stoodWith his faint people for a little restUpon the shore of Jordan. The light windOf morn was stirring, and he bared his browTo its refreshing breath; for he had wornThe mourner’s covering, and he had not feltThat he could see his people until now.They gathered round him on the fresh green bank,And spoke their kindly words; and as the sunRose 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 thoughtsCome crowding thickly up for utterance,And the poor common words of courtesyAre such a very mockery, how muchThe bursting heart may pour itself in prayer!He prayed for Israel; and his voice went upStrongly and fervently; he prayed for thoseWhose love had been his shield; and his deep tonesGrew tremulous; but oh! for Absalom!For his estranged, misguided Absalom—The proud, bright being who had burst away,In all his princely beauty, to defyThe heart that cherished him—for him he poured,In agony that would not be controlled,Strong supplication, and forgave him thereBefore his God, for his deep sinfulness.
King David’s limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem, and now he stood
With his faint people for a little rest
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 he 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 hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gateSat David, as the glittering thousands passedForth to the battle. With a troubled eyeHe looked upon their pomp, and as the helmsBent low before him, and the banners swayedLike burnished wings to do him reverence,His look grew restless, and he did not wearThe lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.The leader of the host came by. His formWas like a son of Anak, and he strodeMajestically on, and bore his crestAs men were waters, and his frame a rock.The king rose up to Joab, and came near,As his tall helm was bowed; and by the loveHe bore his master, he besought him thereThat he would spare him Absalom alive.He passed with his stern warriors on; the trumpAnd the loud cymbal died upon the ear;And as the king turned off his weary gaze,The last faint gleam had vanished, and the woodOf Ephraim had received a thousand men,To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.
The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gate
Sat David, as the glittering thousands passed
Forth to the battle. With a troubled eye
He looked upon their pomp, and as the helms
Bent low before him, and the banners swayed
Like burnished wings to do him reverence,
His look grew restless, and he did not wear
The lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.
The leader of the host came by. His form
Was like a son of Anak, and he strode
Majestically on, and bore his crest
As men were waters, and his frame a rock.
The king rose up to Joab, and came near,
As his tall helm was bowed; and by the love
He bore his master, he besought him there
That he would spare him Absalom alive.
He passed with his stern warriors on; the trump
And the loud cymbal died upon the ear;
And as the king turned off his weary gaze,
The last faint gleam had vanished, and the wood
Of Ephraim had received a thousand men,
To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave; and as the foldsSunk to the still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom.His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curlsWere floating round the tassels as they swayedTo the admitted air, as glossy nowAs when in hours of gentle dalliance bathingThe snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiledWith trailing through Jerusalem, was laidReversed beside him; and the jewelled 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 his bierAnd gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,As if he feared the slumberer might stir.A slow step startled him. He grasped his bladeAs if a trumpet rang; but the bent formOf David entered, and he gave commandIn a low tone to his few followers,And left him with his dead. The king stood stillTill the last echo died; then throwing offThe sackcloth from his brow, and laying backThe pall from the still features of his child,He bowed his head upon him, and broke forthIn the resistless eloquence of woe.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds
Sunk 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, as glossy now
As when in hours of gentle dalliance bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed beside him; and the jewelled 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 his bier
And gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,
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 shouldst 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!
‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst 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 chillWhen to my bosom I would try 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 dumbAnd cold lips, Absalom!
‘Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill
When to my bosom I would try 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 gushOf 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 comeTo meet me, 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, Absalom!
‘And oh! when I am stricken, and my heartLike a bruised reed is waiting to be broken;How will its love for thee, as I depart,Long for thine ear to catch its dying token!It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,To see thee, Absalom!
‘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,
Long for thine ear to catch its dying 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 erring 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 erring Absalom!’
He covered up his face, and bowed himselfA moment on his child; then giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis hands convulsively, as if in prayer;And as a strength were given him of God,He rose up calmly, and composed the pallAbout him decently, and left him thereAs if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
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 a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
About him decently, and left him there
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.