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
When to my bosom I would try 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 these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!