Kynge David, Hys Lamente Over the Bodyes of Kynge Saul of Israel and His Sonne Jonathan

The beautye of the lande ys slayne,
How lowlye are the myghte layne!

I

NOW lette us shede the brinie teare,

And lette us heave the pityinge moane!—

But whyle we strowe the willowe biere

For Ysrael’s pryde to lye upon;

Oh! lette not Gath the tidynges heare

Oh, tell yt not yn Askalon,

Lest every wayling sounde of ours

Rayse triumpe-shoutes in heathen bowers!

May raine or dew droppe neuer lyghte

Upon thy mountaynes, Gilboa!

May offerynge flame ne’er crowne thyne heighte

In deepe of nyght or noon of daye!

Where worsted yn unholie fyghte

The myghtie flung hys shielde away;

Cast meanlie on the fouled greene,

As he had ne’er anoynted beene!

III

From battel fyelde they turned them ne’er

With bowe unstrunge, or blade untryede—

Pleasant They Were Yn Life, and Fayre

Nor Yette Did Deathe Theyre Loues Divide—

Theyre nervous armes mighte scathelesse dare

To bearde the lyon yn hys pryde;

Yette theyre lyghte limbs made fleeter speede

Than eagles stoopynge o’er the meade.

Ye daughteres of the lande, deplore,

For Saule the bounteous and the bolde,

Whose kynglie hande hath founde you store

Of crimson geare and clothe of golde.

Alack! that hande can giue noe more,

That worthie harte ys stille and colde;

Unknown amongst the deade and dyinge,

The mightie with the mean are lying!—

Ah! Jonathan! my brother! lorne

And friendless I must looke to be!—

That harte whose woe thou ofte hast borne

Is sore and strickene nowe for thee.

Young brydegroome’s loue on brydal morne,

Oh! yt was lyghte to thyne for me.

Thy tymelesse lotte I now must playne,

Even on thyne owne high places slayne!

How lowlie now the mightie are!

How still the weapons of the war.