Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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| 4. | MELODY FOURTH. 2d Samuel, I. 19, &c.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
MELODY FOURTH. 2d Samuel, I. 19, &c.
Thy beauty, Israel, now lies slain
Upon the mountains high,
Or, stretch'd upon the gory plain,
Thy fallen mighty lie.
Let Gath nor Askelon not hear
Those news, so grating to my ear,
Which will the uncircumcised cheer,
While I do weep and sigh.
Upon the mountains high,
Or, stretch'd upon the gory plain,
Thy fallen mighty lie.
Let Gath nor Askelon not hear
Those news, so grating to my ear,
Which will the uncircumcised cheer,
While I do weep and sigh.
May never dew nor rain descend
Upon Gilboa's hills;
Nor off'ring's fume in ether wend
By banks of murm'ring rills;
For there the shield which blazed around
Lies trampled on the blood-stain'd ground;
Thy shield, O Saul, by unction bound,
Lies prostrate at their wills.
Upon Gilboa's hills;
Nor off'ring's fume in ether wend
By banks of murm'ring rills;
For there the shield which blazed around
Lies trampled on the blood-stain'd ground;
Thy shield, O Saul, by unction bound,
Lies prostrate at their wills.
The bow doth Jonathan no more
Bring from the foughten field;
Nor Saul, as oft in times before,
His sword, with valour steel'd.
They lovely in their lives have been,
And death them sever'd not, I ween;
Swifter than eagles—on the green,
Like lions, slow to yield.
Bring from the foughten field;
Nor Saul, as oft in times before,
His sword, with valour steel'd.
They lovely in their lives have been,
And death them sever'd not, I ween;
Swifter than eagles—on the green,
Like lions, slow to yield.
Weep, Jacob's daughters, o'er his urn,
Who you in scarlet clad:
With voice of woe his slaughter mourn!
Ah me! my soul is sad.
Oh how, within the battle's swell,
Have perish'd they I loved so well?
Could no bless'd arm the stroke repel
Of destiny so bad?
Who you in scarlet clad:
With voice of woe his slaughter mourn!
Ah me! my soul is sad.
Oh how, within the battle's swell,
Have perish'd they I loved so well?
Could no bless'd arm the stroke repel
Of destiny so bad?
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O Jonathan, to me, thy love
Excell'd the ardent throe
Which doth the female bosom move
To rapture's warmest glow.
But now from me are ever fled
They who so oft to vict'ry led;
The strength of war lies prostrate, dead,
By this marauding foe.
Excell'd the ardent throe
Which doth the female bosom move
To rapture's warmest glow.
But now from me are ever fled
They who so oft to vict'ry led;
The strength of war lies prostrate, dead,
By this marauding foe.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |