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,