 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
274
SOLOMON'S JUDGMENT.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.
The painter's art has well portrayed the scene—
The mighty monarch of majestic mien,
The pleading mother, and that hardened one
Who falsely cried—“The living is my son!”—
A warlike figure of gigantic height
Towers in the foreground, terrible to sight;
His right hand lifting high the fatal blade,
While in his left he grasps the child dismayed;
Ready, with muscle braced and swelling vein,
The little trembler to divide in twain.
The mighty monarch of majestic mien,
The pleading mother, and that hardened one
Who falsely cried—“The living is my son!”—
A warlike figure of gigantic height
Towers in the foreground, terrible to sight;
His right hand lifting high the fatal blade,
While in his left he grasps the child dismayed;
Ready, with muscle braced and swelling vein,
The little trembler to divide in twain.
Mark—on the features of the woman vile,
Who said—“Divide it”—blended guilt and guile;
Although, demanding tributary tear,
The corse of infant innocence is near;
A blighted flower that on her bosom lay,
A thing of life and gladness yesterday—
The playmate that its little hand had fed:
A favorite dog, true only to the dead.
Who said—“Divide it”—blended guilt and guile;
Although, demanding tributary tear,
The corse of infant innocence is near;
A blighted flower that on her bosom lay,
A thing of life and gladness yesterday—
The playmate that its little hand had fed:
A favorite dog, true only to the dead.
So much of wildering beauty charms the gaze—
So much of life upon the canvas plays,
That colors match the power of spoken word:
Hark! are not tones of earnest pleading heard
A voice that cries aloud in accent wild—
“In no wise slay—give her the living child!”
Those touching words, and that beseeching tone
Could flow from fond, paternal lips alone;
And the king said—“The sword shall not destroy—
She is the mother—give her back the boy!”
So much of life upon the canvas plays,
That colors match the power of spoken word:
Hark! are not tones of earnest pleading heard
A voice that cries aloud in accent wild—
“In no wise slay—give her the living child!”
Those touching words, and that beseeching tone
Could flow from fond, paternal lips alone;
And the king said—“The sword shall not destroy—
She is the mother—give her back the boy!”
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |