 | Poems |  |
[III. The Monarch walked his battlement]
The Monarch walked his battlement,
And o'er the sheeny turrets bent,
His harp was strung, and in the breeze was sighing.
And Kedron, in meandering flow,
Was chiming, 'mid the solar glow,
And to their lairs the wild's inmates were hieing.
And o'er the sheeny turrets bent,
His harp was strung, and in the breeze was sighing.
And Kedron, in meandering flow,
Was chiming, 'mid the solar glow,
And to their lairs the wild's inmates were hieing.
Below, the curling water played,
And, beneath the myrtle shade,
A diamond eye from raven lids is glancing;
The coral lip, the glossy brow,
The ivory neck, where tresses flow,
Array the form, round which bright love is dancing.
And, beneath the myrtle shade,
A diamond eye from raven lids is glancing;
The coral lip, the glossy brow,
The ivory neck, where tresses flow,
Array the form, round which bright love is dancing.
And when the crystal mirrored lymph,
In undulations, saw the nymph
In veilless beauty, as carnation blushing,
It flung a sparkling beam above,
And haloed the sheen path of love,
And through the veins the ardent flood was rushing.
In undulations, saw the nymph
In veilless beauty, as carnation blushing,
It flung a sparkling beam above,
And haloed the sheen path of love,
And through the veins the ardent flood was rushing.
The monarch saw—and felt the glow,
The vivid flame of passion grow,
Like balmy breezes rich ratafia breathing;
The royal mandate flew—and soon
The spotless nymph in the gay saloon
Idallia stood, and soft perfume was wreathing.
The vivid flame of passion grow,
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The royal mandate flew—and soon
The spotless nymph in the gay saloon
Idallia stood, and soft perfume was wreathing.
And now, amid the battle-shock,
With death in ev'ry falchion's stroke,
The doomed Uriah, like a hero's, warring;
Alas! he crowns the gory slain,
The breathless mountain of the plain,—
The wanton grasp no mortal dread's debarring.
With death in ev'ry falchion's stroke,
The doomed Uriah, like a hero's, warring;
Alas! he crowns the gory slain,
The breathless mountain of the plain,—
The wanton grasp no mortal dread's debarring.
The purple vestments veil the deed,
And rapture wears the trophied meed,
And blithesome reveries joyous hope are beaming;
But the sabre cleaves the cion,
And blackness shrouds celestial Zion,
And quenchless fires around the scene are gleaming.
And rapture wears the trophied meed,
And blithesome reveries joyous hope are beaming;
But the sabre cleaves the cion,
And blackness shrouds celestial Zion,
And quenchless fires around the scene are gleaming.
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