And the falchion by thy side LORD BYRON (1788-1824). SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, Heed not the corpse, though a king's, in your path: Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath! Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet! Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. Farewell to others, but never we part, Heir to my royalty, son of my heart! Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day. LORD BYRON (1788-1824). THE FIELD OF GILBOA. THE sun of the morning looked forth from his throne, And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying; For the yell and the strife, like the thunder, had flown, And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying. And there lay the husband that lately was prest To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy; But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast, And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody. And there lay the son of the widowed and sad, Who yesterday went from her dwelling for ever; Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had On the delicate limbs that had ceased not to quiver. And there came the daughter, the delicate child, To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild, To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory. And there came the consort that struggled in vain To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother that sunk 'mid the slain, To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her. Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie Where the king and his people were slaughtered together, May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither! WILLIAM KNOX (1789-1825). GILBOA. I. So life is ending, and its visions pass Before the inward eye, Like soft dew falling on the tender grass, When all around is dry. Through the dark night I see the ruby flush Of childhood's earliest day; Through war's wild din, and battle's torrent rush, I hear the children play. Yet once again I live that time of might, When I, and one with me Dwelt one, whose name had been a word of fear, In sullen solitudes. I shudder yet at what I saw and heard, The spectral form, the whispered, muttering word, The spells that raise the dead, The low wild chaunt that came like mourner's wail, When o'er the grave sweeps fast the northern gale, The lurid light and red. The kingly face with terror wan and white, The tall form stretched upon the earth all night, The weariness and woe; The dreary hours between the midnight black And day's first gloaming, pale and faint and slack, The minutes moving slow; The fixed despair, the wild and vacant eye Of one who hates his life, yet cannot die, Though even hope is gone. Dark end, my father, this of all thy fame, The songs and shouts that heralded thy name The cry of battle won; Dark end of all the loftier hours of life When, raised awhile above its little strife, Thy soul rose up to heaven, And Saul the prophet, bursting into praise, Sang the great hymns of earlier, holier days, Forgiving and forgiven. Ah! even yet I dream there lingers still, Through wildest storms, and wanderings of the will, The man that God will own; That loftiest hour thou canst not all forget, That glory of the past is with thee yet, That music from the Throne. |