The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

The beams of Israel's glory die,
The flow'rs of beauty are no more;
Lo! on yon cloud-clad hill they lie,
With visage ghastly pale, and floating in their gore!
Full low the regal warriors bow
Their helmed heads, and stoop the tow'ry crest,
Their eye-lids seal'd by dreary woe,
And grim Death brooding o'er each panting breast.
How are thy champions' haughty boast
Indignant dash'd with grim-ey'd Shame!
How are the mighty fall'n, without a name!
To live the bulwark of thy haughty coast.

199

Tell not the dismal tale around,
Lest rivals triumph at the sound,
And hurl our fragile remnants down,
While we, the fate of mighty woe,
Through Gath with fierce revilings go,
And feel th' unhallow'd taunts of hostile Askelon.

Ye spiry mounts on Gilboa's swell sublime,
Bow to the ground each nodding oak,
Let no kind dews refresh the genial clime,
Or waving fields the rip'ning power invoke;
For there the shield inglorious lies,
The mighty shield of royal Saul,
As though no bright-plum'd seraphs mark'd his fall;
As though no lightnings wing'd his flaming sword;
No maily adamant embrac'd his form;
No Godhead help'd his own anointed lord
To rise superior to the storm.

In many a bosom nobly gor'd,
Stout Jonathan imbrued his dart;
And fierce Saul flesh'd his ruddy sword
In many a warrior's streaming heart;
Then have they come untrophied back,
Though death and sorrow crown the bold attack.

200

As youth was mutual, so was death;
The same sad moment saw each struggling,
Through the lip quiver, wan, and cold:
Fleeter than eagles they could chase the foe,
Like lions bare the dauntless breast;
But now their victor tale of life is told,
Low are their deeds, their matchless conquests low,
And many a pilgrim soothes their souls to rest.

Ye blooming maids of Israel weep,
In gorgeous purple's rich attire;
His comely cheeks in tear of rapture steep,
And fan with frequent sighs the fun'ral pyre.
In the fell heat of furious war,
Conquer'd alone by sudden chance,
How are the mighty fall'n, the fam'd afar!
How has proud Glory tumbled from her car!
Ev'n at her wheels, involv'd in dust,
Low lies the bloodless sword, the shiver'd lance;
Blasted the victor wreath, and broke the warrior bust.
Fresh bursts the torrent from my eye,
The sluices of my panting breast
Can scarce refrain th' increasing flood of woe!
For thee shall heave th' eternal sigh,
For thee my anxious soul be e'er distrest,
My heart-wrung brother humbled low.

201

How are the mighty fall'n! the victors bound,
With barren palms of vict'ry crown'd.
Death leads the train of triumph near,
He lays the conqu'ror on the sable bier,
The close-clench'd hand disarms, and snaps the quiv'ring spear.