XLII.—DAVID’S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM.
WILLIS.
1. 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!
2. 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 harpstring, yearning[350] to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet “My father!” from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
3. 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[351] blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!
4. And, O, 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!
5. And now, farewell! ’Tis hard to give thee up,
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!
[350] Yearnˊing, strongly desiring.
[351] Manˊtling, suffusing the face.