Joseph Friedlander, comp. The Standard Book of Jewish Verse. 1917.
By Nathaniel Parker WillisAbsalom
T
Was straighten’d for the grave; and, as the folds
Sunk 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, as glossy now
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea’s daughters.
His helm was at his feet: his banner, soil’d
With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Reversed, behind 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,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he fear’d the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasp’d his blade
As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form
Of David enter’d, 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 bow’d his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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 call’d thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!”
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasp’d
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.