The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 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 jewelled 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 his bier And gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly, 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 shouldst 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 When to my bosom I would try 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 shalt 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, Long for thine ear to catch its dying 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 erring Absalom!’