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, shall come To meet me, 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,
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 erring 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 a 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.
NOTES.-Dalliance, idleness, leisure. Helm, helmet.
BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND WEPT.
WE sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh, her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh, never
That triumph the stranger shall know !
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,
O Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved and for ever grew still.
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
"O daughter of Babylon! who art to be destroyed: happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us."Psal. cxxxvii. 8.
RAPT in prophetic vision,* I behold
Things hid as yet from mortal sight. I see
The dart of vengeance tremble in the air,
Ere long to pierce the impious king.
The desolating angel stalks abroad,
And brandishes aloft the two-edged sword
Of retribution keen; he soon will strike,
And Babylon shall weep as Sion wept.
Pass but a little while, and you shall see
This queen of cities prostrate on the earth.
This haughty mistress of the kneeling world,
How shall she sit dishonoured in the dust,
In tarnished pomp and solitary woe!
How shall she shroud her glories in the dark,
And in opprobrious silence hide her head!
Lament, O virgin daughter of Chaldea!
For thou shalt fall! imperial queen, shalt fall!
No more Sidonian robes shall grace thy limbs.
To purple garments sackcloth shall succeed;
And sordid dust and ashes shall supply
The od❜rous nard and cassia. Thou, who saidst
I AM, and there is none besides me : thou,
E'en thou, imperial Babylon, shalt fall!
Thy glory quite eclipsed! The pleasant sound
Of viol and of harp shall charm no more!
Nor song of Syrian damsels shall be heard,
Responsive to the lute's luxurious note:
* See the prophecies of Isaiah, xlvii., and others.
But the loud bittern's cry, the raven's croak,
The bat's fell scream, the lonely owl's dull plaint
And ev'ry hideous bird, with ominous shriek,
Shall scare affrighted silence from thy walls;
While desolation, snatching from the hand
Of time the scythe of ruin, sits aloft,
Or stalks in dreadful majesty abroad.
I see th' exterminating fiend advance,
Ev'n now I see her glare with horrid joy,
See towers imperial mouldering at her touch;
She glances on the broken battlement,
She eyes the crumbling column, and enjoys
The work of ages prostrate in the dust-
Then, pointing to the mischief she has made,
Exulting cries, This once was Babylon!
THE king was on his throne,
The satraps thronged the hall :
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine-
Jehovah's vessels hold
The godless heathen's wine.
In that same hour and hall
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
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