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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, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| 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. | 25 |
| O, 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! | 30 |
| 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, O, for Absalom,— | |
| For his estranged, misguided Absalom,— | 35 |
| 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, | 40 |
| Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. * * * * * | |
| 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. | 45 |
| 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 Judæa’s daughters. | 50 |
| 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. | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| 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 | 65 |
| 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: | 70 |
| |
| “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! | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| And hear thy sweet ‘my father!’ from these dumb | |
| And cold lips, Absalom! | |
| |
| “But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush | |
| Of music, and the voices of the young; | |
| And life will pass me in the mantling blush, | 85 |
| And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; | |
| But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come | |
| To meet me, Absalom! | |
| |
| “And O, when I am stricken, and my heart, | |
| Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, | 90 |
| 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! ’T is hard to give thee up, | 95 |
| With death so like a gentle slumber on thee;— | |
| And thy dark sin! O, 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!” | 100 |
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| 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, | 105 |
| He rose up calmly, and composed the pall | |
| Firmly and decently, and left him there, | |
| As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. | |
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