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.
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
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,
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,
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."
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,
And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery-how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He pray'd for Israel—and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He pray'd for those Whose love had been his shield—and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom- For his estranged, misguided Absalom-
The proud, bright being, who had burst away, In all his princely beauty to defy
The heart that cherish'd him-for him he pour'd, In agony that would not be controll'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and, as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd
The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd To the admitted air.
His helm was at his feet; his banner, soil'd With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him; and the jewell'd hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier,
« IndietroContinua » |