DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD 131

And marvellously beautiful! His brow
Had the inspired uplift of the king's,
And kingly was his infantine regard;

But his ripe mouth was of the ravishing mould
Of Bath-sheba's-the hue and type of love,
Rosy and passionate-and oh, the moist
Unfathomable blue of his large eyes

Gave out its light as twilight shows a star,
And drew the heart of the beholder in !—

Moved with unuttered blessings, and awhile
He closed the lids upon his moistened eyes,
And, with the round cheek of the nestling boy
Press'd to his bosom, sat as if afraid
That but the lifting of his lids might jar
The heart-cup's overfulness. Unobserved
A servant of the outer court had knelt
Waiting before him; and a cloud, the while,
Had rapidly spread o'er the summer heaven;
And, as the chill of the withdrawing sun
Fell on the king, he lifted up his eyes
And frown'd upon the servant-for that hour
Was hallow'd to his heart and his fair child,
And none might seek him. And the king arose
And, with a troubled countenance, look'd up
To the fast gathering darkness; and, behold,
The servant bowed himself to earth, and said,
Nathan, the prophet, cometh from the Lord!"
And David's lips grew white, and with a clasp

66

Which wrung a murmur from the frightened child,
He drew him to his breast, and covered him
With the long foldings of his robe, and said,
"I will come forth. Go now!" And lingeringly,
With kisses on the fair uplifted brow,

And mingled words of tenderness and prayer
Breaking in tremulous accents from his lips,
He gave to them the child, and bowed his head
Upon his breast in agony. And so,

To hear the errand of the man of God,
He fearfully went forth.

It was the morning of the seventh day.

A hush was in the palace, for all eyes

Had woke before the morn; and they who drew
The curtains to let in the welcome light,
Moved in their chambers with unslippered feet,
And listened breathlessly. And still no stir!
The servants who kept watch without the door
Sat motionless; the purple casement-shades
From the low windows had been rolled away,
To give the child air; and the flickering light
That all the night, within the spacious court,
Had drawn the watchers' eyes to one spot only,
Paled with the sunrise and fled in.

And hush'd

With more than stillness was the room where lay The king's son on his mother's breast. His locks Slept at the lips of Bath-sheba unstirr'd

DAVID'S GRIEF FOR HIS CHILD 133

So fearfully, with heart and pulse kept down,
She watched his breathless slumber. The low moan
That from his lips all night broke fitfully,

Had silenced with the daybreak; and a smile—
Or something that would fain have been a smile-
Play'd in his parted mouth; and though his lids
Hid not the blue of his unconscious eyes,
His senses seemed all peacefully asleep,

And Bath-sheba in silence blessed the morn
That brought back hope to her! But when the king
Heard not the voice of the complaining child,
Nor breath from out the room, nor foot astir-
But morning there, so welcomeless and still-
He groaned and turned upon his face. The nights
Had wasted; and the mornings come; and days
Crept through the sky, unnumbered by the king,
Since the child sicken'd; and, without the door,
Upon the bare earth prostrate he had lain,
Listening only to the moans that brought
Their inarticulate tidings, and the voice
Of Bath-sheba, whose pity and caress,
In loving utterance all broke with tears,

Spoke as his heart would speak if he were there,
And filled his prayer with agony. O God!

To Thy bright mercy-seat the way is far!

How fail the weak words while the heart keeps on!
And when the spirit, mournfully, at last

Kneels at Thy throne, how cold, how distantly,
The comforting of friends falls on the ear—
The anguish they would speak to gone to Thee!

But suddenly the watchers at the door

Rose up, and they who ministered within

Crept to the threshold, and look'd earnestly
Where the king lay. And still, while Bath-sheba
Held the unmoving child upon her knees,
The curtains were let down, and all came forth,
And, gathering with fearful looks apart,

Whispered together.

And the king arose

And gazed on them a moment, and with voice

Of quick, uncertain utterance, he ask’d,

"Is the child dead?" They answered, "He is dead!"

But when they look'd to see him fall again
Upon his face, and rend himself and weep—
For, while the child was sick, his agony
Would bear no comforture, and they had thought
His heartstrings with the tidings must give way-
Behold! his face grew calm, and, with his robe
Gather'd together like his kingly wont,

He silently went in.

And David came,

Robed and anointed, forth, and to the house
Of God went up to pray. And he return'd,
And they set bread before him, and he ate—
And when they marvell'd, he said, "Wherefore
mourn?

The child is dead, and I shall go to him-
But he will not return to me."

ANONYMOUS

THE DEATH OF ABSALOM

135

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THE DEATH OF ABSALOM

II Samuel xix. I

The waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd

Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream; the willow leaves,

With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,

Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems,
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world!
King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem; and now he stood,
With his faint people, for a little rest,
Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow
To its refreshing breath; for he had worn.
The mourner's covering, and he had not felt
That he could see his people until now.

They gathered round him in the fresh green bank,
And spoke their kindly words; and, as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh! when the heart is full-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,