SAUL.
I hear the shouts at Mizpeh. Wild they swell
Upon the summer air,—and the green hills
Methinks do clap their hands and echo forth
"God save the King!"—
I thought that God was King
Of Israel;—He who snatch'd them from the chains
Of their swarth house of bondage, through the wild
Their footsteps marshall'd,—gave their murmuring lips
The bread of heaven, and led them to a land
Of beauty and of bliss. I thought their vow
Was pour'd o'er Shechem's pillar to his ear
Who in their mansions stay'd the astonish'd Sun,
And night's pale queen, to gaze upon the work
That heaven appointed him. That warrior joy'd
Amid their convocation, when he heard
The solemn vow from willing thousands break,
"Jehovah is our King!—and him alone
Shall Israel serve."—
Who is yon hoary man
With arms close folded on his reverend breast,
Who seems in mournful thought while crowds exult?
Know ye not him, who by his mother's prayer
In infancy's sweet dream was consecrate?—
Who 'neath the holy temple's lonely arch,
When nought was waking save the solemn stars,
Heard the Eternal speak, as sire to son?—
Low his majestic head in grief declines,
As if he ponder'd o'er the sever'd links
Of lost Theocracy,—or sad revolved
His nation's madness, and their God's offence.
Anon, his mind prophetic mid the throngs
Of unborn people roves,—the nameless ills
Of power despotic,—till from his sunk eye
Rolls the big, burning tear drop.—
Who is he,
With head more lofty than the countless crowd
Who gaze upon him,—and with brow so bright
In manly beauty?—The anointing oil
Pour'd by the pale hand of that sorrowing seer,
The crown that dazzles on those temples fair,
The thundering shout that sweeps the vaulted sky.
Best answer thee.—
Years speed their silent course.
I see a palace, and a vassal train,
Proud chariots roll, and regal splendors glow,
And haughty guards surround the vaulted throne.
But is the glory of a land best told
By gaudes like these?—Or doth the crowned brow
Sleep sweeter than the labouring hind who steals
Weary, to his hard pallet?—
What hath dimm'd
The royal smile?—And stamp'd the darken'd seal
Of moody madness on that straining eye?—
There is a shepherd's harp in these high halls,
And the demoniac monarch loves its tone
Of tender minstrelsy,—yet hates the hand
That calls it forth. Oh King! the curse hath fallen
On thee, and on thy people. Thou dost writhe
Beneath the empoison'd purple.—
Look once more!—
There is another change. Proud hosts rush on
To battle, the bold war-horse spurns the ground,
Philistia's champions shake the glittering spear,
And Israel 'neath the banner of her king,
Frowns deep defiance.—Throng'd Gilboa quakes
At the dread onset.—Mid the thickest fight
I see the royal robe, the towering port
Of him, the crown'd at Mizpeh.—From the host
Of darkest dangers, from the direst foes
That lion-hearted monarch turns not back,
Nor his good sword declines.—
But lo! he stands
Alone, amid the slain.—One look he casts,
Accusing and despairing, up to Heaven,
Then rushes on his sword.—
That wound hath quell'd
The last pulsation of a mighty heart,
And weeping thousands wail o'er slaughter'd Saul.