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 thy 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 dumb and cold lips, Absolom!
"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, and the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;—but thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come to meet me, Absalom!"
N. P. Willis.
3.
Noble old man! He did not live to see me, and I—I—did not live to see him. Weighed down by sorrow and disappointment, he died before I was born—six thousand brief summers before I was born.
But let us try to hear it with fortitude. Let us trust that he is better off where he is. Let us take comfort in the thought that his loss is our gain.
Mark Twain.
4.