THE pall was settled. He who slept beneathWas straightened for the grave; and, as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayedThe matchless symmetry of Absalom.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 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 formOf 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 offThe 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?
"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 those dumbAnd 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 flung; -But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt comeTo 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 lost boy, Absalom!"He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then, giving himA look of melting tenderness, he claspedHis 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.
- N. P. WILLIS
