SACRED MUSIC.
The King of Israel sat in state
Within his palace fair,
Where falling fountains, pure and cool,
Assuaged the summer air;
But shrouded was the son of Kish,
Mid all his royal grace;
The tempest of a troubled soul
Swept flashing o'er his face.
In vain were pomp, or regal power,
Or courtier's flattering tone,
For pride and hatred basely sat
Upon his bosom's throne.
He call'd upon his minstrel-boy,
With hair as bright as gold,
Reclining in a deep recess,
Where droop'd the curtain's fold.
Upon his minstrel-boy he call'd,
And forth the stripling came,
Bright beauty on his ruddy brow,
Like morn's enkindling flame.
"Give music," said the moody king,
Nor raised his gloomy eye:
