His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls. His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested like mockery on his covered 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, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang: but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The King stood still Till the last echo died: then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe: “Alas! my noble boy! that thou should’st die,―― Thou who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair―― How could he mark thee for the silent tomb; My proud boy, Absalom! “Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee―― How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee―― And hear thy sweet ‘_My father_,’ from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom! “The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young: And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung,―― But thou no more with thy sweet voice shall come To meet me, Absalom! “And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! “And now farewell. ’Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin――oh! I could drink the cup If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!” He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer: And as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly and composed the pall Firmly and decently,――and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. * * * * *