Beauteous and bright is he among the tribes; As when the sun attired in glistering robe Comes dancing from his oriental gate, And, bridegroom-like, hurls through the gloomy air His radiant beams: such doth King _David_ show, Crowned with the honour of his enemies’ town, Shining in riches like the firmament, The starry vault that overhangs the earth: So looketh _David_, King of Israel. _George Peele._ See Judah’s promised king bereft of all: Driven out an exile from the face of Saul. To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies, To seek that peace a tyrant’s frown denies. Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice; Hear him, o’erwhelmed with sorrows, yet rejoice; No womanish or wailing grief has part, No, not a moment, in his royal heart; ’Tis manly music, such as martyrs make, Suffering with gladness for a Saviour’s sake; His soul exults; hope animates his lays; The sense of mercy kindles into praise; And wilds, familiar with the lion’s roar, Ring with ecstatic sounds unheard before. _Cowper._ And lo! the glories of the illustrious line At their first dawn with ripened splendours shine, In _David_ all expressed; the good, the great, The king, the hero, and the man, complete. Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre, And blends the prophet’s with the poet’s fire. See, with what art he strikes the vocal strings The God, his theme, inspiring what he sings! _Bishop Lowth._ Thy living lyre alone, whose dulcet sounds In gentlest murmurs floating on the air, Could calm the fury of the woe-struck king, And soothe the agony which pierced his heart. Or when thou swept the master strings, and rolled’st The deep impetuous tide along with more Than mortal sound, could’st raise his raptured soul To ecstacy; or from the tortured strings Harsh discord shaking, sink him in the gulf Of dire despair, while horror chilled his blood, And from each pore the agonizing sweat Distilled! that deep-toned lyre alone can sing Thy fervent piety, thy glowing zeal. _William Hodson._ One struggle of might, and the giant of Gath With a crash like the oak in the hurricane’s path, And a clangour of arms, as of hosts in the fray, At the feet of the stripling of Ephratah lay. A hush of amazement;--a calm as of death, When the watcher lists long for that spasm-drawn breath, Then a shout like the roll of artillery rose, And the armies of Israel swept on to their foes. For a space the Philistine had paused, as in doubt, Ere the Israelite triumph rang gloriously out; Then, scattering his arms on the mountains, he fled, Till the valley of Elah was strewn with the dead.