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 these dumb

And cold lips, Absalom!

“The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush

Of music, and the voices of the young: