(The wailing again, and deeper groans.)
O Israel, the Infinite has touched
Thy glory and it changes to a shroud!
Thy splendour is as vintage overspilt,
For Saul upon the mountains low is lying,
And Jonathan beside him, beautiful
Beyond the mar of battle and of death.
Yea, kingly Jonathan! And I would give
The beating of my life into his veins.
Willing for it would I be drouth and die!...
(As the wails re-arise.)
Peaks, mountains of Gilboa! let no more
Dew be upon you, and as sackcloth let
Clouds cover you, and ashes be your soil,
Until I bring upon Philistia
And Gath and Askalon extinguishing,
And sorrow—and immensity of tears!
(Michal goes to him. He folds her in his arms.)
But we must calm the flowing of this grief.
Though yet we cannot mind us to remember,
Love will as sandal-breath and trickling balm
O'erheal us in the unbegotten years,
Too headlong must not be our agony.
Hush now thy woundedness, my Michal, now.
See, o'er the East the lifted wings of Dawn.
(They climb the stair to the house-top. As they look away toward the battle's rout the clouds part, and over them breaks the full brightness of the sun....)
THE END.
The Gresham Press,