University of Virginia Library

HADAD, A DRAMATIC POEM.

INTRODUCTION.

The peculiar feature of this poem is ascribable to the Book of Tobit, where the supernatural throws a mystical wildness over a touching narrative of human interests. A legend in the Talmud, also, mentions the appearance in Jerusalem, not far from the date here assigned him, of the most remarkable of our dramatis personæ.

The belief in a former intercourse between mankind, and the good and evil beings of the Spiritual World, harmonizes with the solemn twilight of the scriptural ages, and is sustained by many declarations of Holy Writ. The passages reciting the necromantic power of the Sorceress of Endor, the passion and discomfiture of the Spirit who was enamoured of the daughter of Raguel, and the Demonian possessions of a later period,—as explained by most commentators, supported by the common faith of the Christian world,—are simple narrations of actual occurrences. Dr. Clarke affirms, that to every unprejudiced reader of the Sacred Writings, it is evident they represent those who dealt with Familiar Spirits, “as actually possessing

a power to evoke the dead, to perform supernatural operations, and to discover hidden and secret things, by spells, charms, incantations, &c.” Dr. Gray, in his observations on the Book of Tobit, which he considers as entitled to the credit of an authentic historical narrative, remarks: “With respect to the agency of Angels, there is nothing inconsistent with reason, received opinions, or Scripture, in supposing a limited superintendence of Superior Beings. We know, indeed, that, under the peculiar circumstances of the Jewish economy, the ministry of Angels was manifestly employed, in subserviency to God's designs; and that particular personages were occasionally favored with their familiar intercourse. It is likewise unquestionable, that, before the power and malevolence of Evil Spirits were checked and restricted by the control of our Saviour, their open influence was experienced.”—Thus understood, the Scriptures offer scenes of unrivalled wildness and sublimity; agents, whose power and attributes are of unknown extent, who connect, on the authority of our Faith, the visible with the invisible world.

The particular epoch signalized by the rebellion of Absalom, is familiar to all. The simple manners which prevailed in Israel previously to the kingly government, and even during the life of Saul, had disappeared. Accelerated by the extensive conquests and the amazing wealth of David, history declares the dawn of that luxury to have become

manifest, which advanced, in the reign of his successor, to a proverbial height of splendor.

Perhaps it may be as well to remind the reader, that Absalom, having avenged his sister by the death of his half-brother Ammon, fled to the court of his maternal grandfather, Talmai, king of Geshur, a principality in the neighbourhood of Damascus. At the expiration of three years, David was persuaded to recall him to Jerusalem, but refused, during two years more, to admit him into his presence. Being, at last, entirely restored to favor, he began to display a pomp characteristic of his haughty and magnificent spirit. He “prepared him chariots, and horses, and fifty men to run before him,” and commenced a system of popular arts, which, rendered effective by his extraordinary personal beauty, and, probably enough, by his talents and achievements, seduced the affections of a great part of the nation from their venerable king. Though, under the severer light of Sacred History, this Achilles, or Alcibiades, of the Hebrews is regarded with a sort of prescriptive horror, his crime was no other than that for which Cœur de Lion, and many other favorites of history and romance stand accountable. David's vehement attachment proves him to have been not destitute of virtues, and they may naturally be supposed to have been of the heroic kind. Of his beautiful daughter we know no more, than that her personal attractions were thought worthy of mention by the sacred historian.

Hadad was the name of the contemporary sovereigns

of Damascus. Nicholas of Damascus relates, that, after many battles, David signally defeated one of them near the Euphrates, together with Hadadezer, another Syrian monarch, whom he was attempting to succour; and adds, that the succeeding kings of Damascus took the name of Hadad.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

• David, King of Israel.
• Absalom, his son; the latter yet a boy.
• Solomon, his son; the latter yet a boy.
• Hadad, of the blood royal of Damascus, an hostage in Jerusalem.
• Mephibosheth, the son of Jonathan; residing in David's palace.
• Nathan, the Seer.
• Zadok, High Priest.
• Abiathar, High Priest.
• Joab, the Military Chief.
• Benaiah, Captain of the Cherethites and Pelethites, or Life-Guard.
• Ahithophel, of the Royal Council.
• Hushai, of the Royal Council.
• Manasses, of the Royal Council.
• Malchiah, of the Royal Council.
• Balaam-Haddon, a Babylonish Mage.
• Obil, an Ishmaelite, keeper of the King's camels.
• Maugrabin, an instrument of Hadad's.
• Abimilech, Captain of a company of Ishmaelites.
• Bagoas, a Eunuch in the household of Absalom.
• Jews, Ishmaelites, Slaves, &c.
• Tamar, the daughter of Absalom.
• Malcuth, wife of Obil.
• Sarah, wife and daughter of Abimilech.
• Adah, wife and daughter of Abimilech.
• Ishamaelite women, &c.

SCENE. Chiefly in Jerusalem.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A hall in the palace of David. Mephibosheth seated, attended by two Ethiopians.
Mephib.
Who lurks in yonder vestibule?—There flits
A shadow there.

Enter Hadad.
Had.
Ha, Prince, forsake the banquet?

Mephib.
Young Syrian, he becomes that title better
Who, midst his sons and captains, feasts, to-day,
Envoys from proudest nations; tyrant Egypt,
Elam, and Tyre, Assyria, and Damascus,
Dusk princes from the east, and unknown south;
All bearing to his coffers richest gifts,
Fuming his pride with incense, courting league
And amity with him, whose warlike name
Even Ishmael's roving sons respect and fear.

Had.
Dost thou—thou, whose illustrious grandsire wore
The crown of Israel, when young David's brows
Were wreathed with oak-leaves in the wilderness,
Renounce thy lineage, title, thy great name,
Because thou lack'st the chair and canopy?—
Prince, in that unseen chamber where the Soul
Sits shrouded with her winged ministry,
Swifter than light and countless as the stars,—
High aims, proud thoughts, inflexible resolves,
And hopes that reach at glory, there is fixed
The seat of Majesty.

Mephib.
O, thoughts like these
May grace the lips, but thou wilt live to find
Power is the seat of Majesty.

Had.
When clouds
Lowered black as midnight o'er his head, who, now,
Thinks nought can intercept the sun, and deems
His throne immovable as holy Zion,
What had his heart to lean on in the hour
Of peril, but an old man's prophecy?—
Less stable, Prince, than lineal rights like thine.—
But to that golden prophecy he clung,
Revolved it waking, slept to dream it o'er,
Drew from it hope, and constancy, and courage;
Else, had some cavern been his dwelling still,
And not these roofs of cedar.

Mephib.
Hadad,—no—
Thou 'rt not so wild, to deem the abject wretch
Mephibosheth presumes to think of rights?

Had.
Glimmers thy natal star more dim than mine?
Am not I here an hostage, poor, and powerless,
Condemned to exile on the false pretence
Of Syria's broken faith? destined, perhaps,
To fill some Hebrew dungeon, while a son
Of David sways the sceptre of Damascus?
Yet, singly here upon his wall-girt hill,
I feel, and will assert, my claims, as proudly
As in the halls of Hadad.

Mephib.
Different far
Thy fate and mine.—Thy race survives:—a throne
Awaits thee. Seated there, thou mayst restore,
Avenge its greatness. I, alas! a cripple,—
(Wrecked doubly on that fatal Gilboa,—) what
Can I, but weep and curse?—Cut off from action,
Like a dull Levite, I consume my life
O'er chronicles that teach me what I 've lost:—
Or in some niche of these—my master's halls—
Observe their ways and comment.

Had.
Rare! O, rare!
Slayings and prayings!—psalmody and love!—
War cries and canticles!—wassail and sackcloth!—
Groanings, and making groan the bleeding nations!

Mephib.
In the primeval day, the friends of God
Dwelt in plain tents, or underneath some tree;
But see how this Prince-prophet builds his nest.
Mark yonder pavement, like a limpid lake,
Reflecting all things from its polished face;
Behold yon couches, wrought like kingly thrones
With gold and ivory; those Tyrian hangings,
Garnished, and enter-tissued, till they mock
The very tabernacle. Breathe the perfume
From yonder bossy censers, sending up
A silvery volume to the vaulted roof;—
There the lign-aloes wastes its precious sweets,
Costlier than Ophir's dust. Look at his meats,
His wines, the service of his table; youths
About his cup fairer than Tammuz. See
His wives, his concubines, whose annual waste
Employs the looms of Egypt, whose dove necks
Glitter with gems that might redeem a kingdom.

Had.
Types, types of Paradise, my lord,
Whose pleasures strain, so oft, his poet fancy!

Mephib.
Nor is this all; his sons outstrip their sire
In every wild device of luxury.
Poor Israel sweats to pamper their blown pride,
Which, swollen and rank, breaks out, anon, in lust
And murder. Never was a land so cursed,
So trampled!—See the red-hand Absalom!—
Is there a demi-god in Syria's temples
A juster image of tyrannic pride?—
Not Pharaoh's chariot prouder grinds the way,
Or makes the dwelling of Osiris tremble
As his audacious wheels the mercy-seat!
His haughty spirit lightens in his eye,
That, eagle-like, seems fixed on some far quarry:
His Babylonish mantle, wrought with stars,
And golden characters of strange device,
Flames like a constellation; and the hoop,
Half seen upon his brows, denotes a will,
That, if it dared, would make a white head crownless.

Had.
Interpret not so harshly. It denotes
But David's heir, the eldest, noblest-born,
Bravest, and most illustrious son of Israel.

Mephib.
Ho!—by whose blood became he so?

Had.
By blood which, had I shed in such a cause,
I ne'er had washed the voucher from my hand.

Mephib.
But Daniel too—
Is he despatched? or has he sold his birthright?

Had.
Ere he essay to curb this fiery people,
Send him to still the bellowing oaks of Bashan.

Mephib.
But, prithee, how know'st thou, or Absalom,
That Adonijah, who, in valiant parts,
Scarce yields to him the palm, and far outshines
In peaceful virtues and unblemished fame,
May not be chosen?—ay, or Solomon,
Old Nathan's darling, son of David's age,
Cherished like Joseph, whose ripe boyhood yields
The promise of a mind that after times
Will wonder at? The King was Jesse's youngest,
And matched young Solomon in looks and years,
When Samuel passed seven stately sons, to crown
The shepherd boy.—Why dost thou fix thine eyes,
As thou wouldst rend the secrets from my soul?

Had.
But hast thou heard—or noted aught like this?

Mephib.
Prince of Damascus, what is that to thee?
If Saul and David, or if David's sons
Dispute the throne, hath Syria aught to say?

Had.
Nay, Prince, I meant but—

Mephib.
Meant to draw forth that
Which Absalom, thy kinsman, burns to know;
Thy more than kinsman—beauteous Tamar's sire!
Tell him, Mephibosheth nor hears, nor sees,
Nor hath, in these fair seeming days, a tongue.
Slaves, to mine arbour.

(Mephibosheth is borne out.)
Had.
He harps the fatal note,—young Solomon,—
The scorpion of the brood, whose sting shall prove
Mortal to other than his foes.— (Listens.)
The step
Is Absalom's—'t is he—and opportunely.

Enter Absalom.
Ab.
Hadad, thine uncle's envoys sup with me,
In private, with the Tyrian: go, I prithee,
And bid those chiefs of Issachar, whose cause
Sped ill this morning. Say Ahithophel,
Who friended them in council, meets with us.—
But wherefore meditatest thou here alone?

Had.
The son of Jonathan just parted from me.
Being next him at the table, I refreshed
His cup so oft, and spiced it so with vaunts
Of Judah's glory, (subtler than the wine
To work on Benjamin,) that in a rage
He flung from me to cool his ferment here.
I followed, as unconscious of offence,
In hopes his drink or passion might let fall
Something of import to you.

Ab.
Dropped he aught?

Had.
An ominous hint or two.

Ab.
As how?

Had.
Discoursing of the King, his power, and glory,
I mentioned you as his undoubted heir.
He eyed me with a look askance, implying
More than his words, and craved to know why you,
Or I, thought that,—commended Adonijah,—
Then, with a smile of dark, malignant joy
Which lighted up his murky eye, exclaimed,
“Why not the younger?—nature's prodigy,—
Son of old age,—the Prophet's favorite!
What! did not Samuel consecrate a child?”

Ab.
Malicious slave! He sees what, like a barbed
And venomed shaft, hath rankled in me long.
The Seer and Joab plot against me.

Had.
But think you that the King gives ear to them?

Ab.
I would not wrong my father.—He hath been
Gracious to me and constant, and hath shown
Tokens of love I cannot lightly bury.

Had.
But did you note, my lord,
The homage shown the boy before the envoys?
How they discoursed with him? what costly gifts,
Caresses, flattery, they heaped upon him?
Or watch the workings of your father's face,
When the old Chaldee lifted up his hands
In wonder at his answers?—Had he been
Israel's sole hope, they could not more have graced him.

Ab.
Was it so marked?

Had.
Nay ask; for others saw it,
And smiled, and spoke aside. And sure, my lord,
The son of Bathsheba receives, of late,
Nicer observance, winged obedience,
Obsequious homage, (most observable
In those about the court who love not us,)
And the old Prophet watches him as close
As if some evil Spirit lurked to snare
The precious child of heaven, and heir of Israel.

Ab.
Would heaven, or hell, or any place but this,
Contained the basilisk!

Had.
Ha! look!—
Enter Nathan.
—the hoary root of mischief comes.—
Let us retire to safer conference:—
Spies are about us:—stay not to accost him.—

(Exeunt Absalom and Hadad.)
Nath.
Why doth that Syrian shun me? Always thus
He, like a guilty thing, avoids my presence.
Where'er I find him,—and I find him ever
Closely conferring, whether in the streets,
Or gates, or chief resorts,—if I appear,
His bright, mysterious eye seems conscious of me,
And soon he vanishes. I touched him once.
He turned, as he had felt a scorpion; fear
And loathing glared from his enkindled orbs,
And paleness overspread his face, like one
Who smothers mortal pain. Fierce, subtle, dark,
Designing, and inscrutable, he walks
Among us like an evil Angel.

(Passes on.)

SCENE II.

The King's private apartment. King David alone. Enter Nathan.
Nath.
God save the Anointed!

K. Dav.
Seer, we would thy counsel.
Damascus asks a consort for his heir,
Our hostage, here, and names the flower of Israel,
Absalom's daughter. What shall we reply?

Nath.
Should Israel graft upon a heathen stock?

K. Dav.
But 't is a noble youth, and near of kin;
And sure the gentle maiden favors him,
For Absalom himself preferred the suit,
Who lives in Tamar.

Nath.
Hearken not, O King.

K. Dav.
But if the youth conform to Moses, sure,
His blood and fortunes may aspire so high.
What nobler line than Hadad's, or what throne
Of older splendor than Damascus'?

Nath.
Old, and idolatrous.

K. Dav.
Her idols fall
If she be linked with us, and Israel's crown
Secures a warlike power as her ally.

Nath.
Rather betroth her to the poorest hind
That toils in Judah.

K. Dav.
Prophet of the Lord,
Seest thou aught more in him than we discern,—
A young prince modelled in the rarest mould
Of mind and features?—Ne'er have I beheld,
Save my son Absalom's, a goodlier form,
Or mind of brighter lustre.

Nath.
I have felt
Strange agitations in his presence,—throes,
And horrid workings,—like the inward strife
After dark visions,—when the spectral forms
That lodge and haunt there, turmoil all my soul.—
Some mystery—some strange antipathy
Torments me with abhorrence and distrust.—
Let not his beauty or his tongue entice thee:
He hath an eye bright as the morning star,
But pride, and fiendlike cunning, glance from it,
And sin is couched in his lascivious smile.

K. Dav.
If intimations visit thee from Heaven,
We owe obedience, else, as man to man,
We speak.—His daughter's welfare I would leave
To Absalom. He hath a mind mature,
Is politic to judge, and loves the maid
Even to her rich deservings. They best know
Their Syrian kinsman, long beneath their roof.

Nath.
Hath she escaped Syria's foul rites, to yield,
Even in the precincts of the sanctuary,
To an uncircumcised, the heart where faith
Glowed like the burning censer!—O, beware
Of crafty policy! It wears a face
Too like ambition. Geshur cleaves to him,—
League but Damascus—with his power in Israel—
And Absalom may bend his father's bow.

K. Dav.
Wrong not my son.

Nath.
I would not; but I fear
The sin of Lucifer hath snared his heart!—
Say why such state attends him?—why he rides
In a proud chariot drawn by fiery steeds,
While Israel's monarch sits upon a mule?—
Why dazzling guards surround him?—Why he still
Stands in the gates saluting all who pass,
And greeting in the streets the common people,
As they were brothers? True humility—

K. Dav.
You misinterpret venial things—

Nath.
He doth insult the throne, and take from age,
And royalty, their reverence.

K. Dav.
You love him not, and ever strained his faults.

Nath.
Why are the Chiefs and Princes of the Tribes,
Who come to solemnize our holy feasts,
Caressed about his table till they deem
The crown upon his brows?—Your chiefest men,
Ancients, and reverend Judges, flock to hear
His Syrian Parasite sweeten their cups
With honeyed flattery, and golden hopes,
And promises of days when Absalom
Shall make the desert blossom, and the rock
Drop as the vine and olive.

K. Dav.
Days like these
Were welcome, Seer.

Nath.
You know not what you utter;—
Woe to the hour of his anointing!—King!
A dreadful vintage shall be trod that day,
With purple garments!—Lo! the noise of arms,
Chariots, and horsemen, and the shout of Nations,
Are in my ears!—the wail of Zion!—Hark!
A cry, a cry, comes from her royal towers,
Of bitter anguish, like a Monarch's voice!
My Son! my People! Woe, alas!

K. Dav.
Say on,—
Heaven's will is ours.

Nath.
'T is gone—
It passed me, like a cloud of blood, with sounds
Confused, like battle.

K. Dav.
(after a pause.)
Nought from thy hallowed lips
Falls unrespected. He who changed yon crook
For Israel's sceptre, may refuse, or grant,
The same to Absalom. His will be done!—
But, Man of God, I harbour no distrust.
Familiar with the pomp of older kingdoms,
My son but antedates the day of Israel.
He, ever, loved the ornaments of life,
Arms and the glistering face of war, and bore
Himself, from his most tender years, like one
Conscious of nobleness, born to sustain
A kingdom's burden.

Nath.
Son of Jesse,—

K. Dav.
What! hath he not, since fourteen summers old,
Served with me in the field, slept in my tent,
Hungered, and suffered, watched, and toiled with me;
Shed his young blood by veteran captains' sides,
And wielded those bright weapons you dispraise
Beneath mine eyes, in dire and mutual hazards,
Like a true son and soldier?

Nath.
Son of Jesse,—

K. Dav.
(waving his hand)
'T is near the hour of sacrifice.
We'll pause ere we decide the Syrian's suit.

Nath.
(making obeisance.)
Dwell, ever, in the hollow of His hand!

(Exit Nathan. King David retires into his cloest.)

SCENE III.

The garden of Absalom's house on Mount Zion, near the palace, overlooking the city. Tamar sitting by a fountain.
Tam.
How aromatic evening grows! The flowers
And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha;
Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets.
Blest hour! which He, who fashioned it so fair,
So softly glowing, so contemplative,
Hath set, and sanctified to look on man.
And lo! the smoke of evening sacrifice
Ascends from out the tabernacle.—Heaven,
Accept the expiation, and forgive
This day's offences!—Ha! the wonted strain,
Precursor of his coming!—Whence can this—
It seems to flow from some unearthly hand—

Enter Hadad.
Had.
Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount,
Herself, or heaven?

Tam.
Nay, Hadad, tell me whence
Those sad, mysterious sounds.

Had.
What sounds, dear Princess?

Tam.
Surely, thou know'st; and now I almost think
Some spiritual creature waits on thee.

Had.
I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends
Up from the city to these quiet shades;
A blended murmur sweetly harmonizing
With flowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy,
And voices from the hills.

Tam.
The sounds I mean,
Floated like mournful music round my head,
From unseen fingers.

Had.
When?

Tam.
Now, as thou camest.

Had.
'T is but thy fancy, wrought
To ecstasy; or else thy grandsire's harp
Resounding from his tower at eventide.
I 've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones,
Till the broad moon, that rose o'er Olivet,
Stood listening in the zenith; yea, have deemed
Viols and heavenly voices answered him.

Tam.
But these—

Had.
Were we in Syria, I might say
The Naiad of the fount, or some sweet Nymph,
The goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee,
And gave thee salutations; but I fear
Judah would call me infidel to Moses.

Tam.
How like my fancy! When these strains precede
Thy steps, as oft they do, I love to think
Some gentle being who delights in us
Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming;
But they are dirge-like.

Had.
Youthful fantasy,
Attuned to sadness, makes them seem so, lady.
So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever,
As signs of rest and peace;—the watchman's call,
The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump
Announcing the returning moon, the pipe
Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing-bell,
Send melancholy to a drooping soul.

Tam.
But how delicious are the pensive dreams
That steal upon the fancy at their call!

Had.
Delicious to behold the world at rest.
Meek labor wipes his brow, and intermits
The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot;
Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks,—and hark!
What merry strains they send from Olivet!
The jar of life is still; the city speaks
In gentle murmurs; voices chime with lutes
Waked in the streets and gardens; loving pairs
Eye the red west in one another's arms;
And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields
A glimpse of happiness, which He, who formed
Earth and the stars, had power to make eternal.

Tam.
Ah! Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend
Who gave so much, because he gave not all?

Had.
Perfect benevolence, methinks, had willed
Unceasing happiness, and peace, and joy;
Filled the whole universe of human hearts
With pleasure, like a flowing spring of life.

Tam.
Our Prophet teaches so, till man's rebellion.

Had.
Rebellion!—Had he leaguered Heaven itself
With beings powerful, numberless, and dreadful—
Mixed onset 'midst the lacerating hail,
And snake-tongued thunderbolts, that hissed and stung
Worse than eruptive mountains,—this had fallen
Within the category.—But what did man?—
Tasted an apple! and the fragile scene,
Eden, and innocence, and human bliss,
The nectar-flowing streams, life-giving fruits,
Celestial shades, and amaranthine flowers,
Vanish; and sorrow, toil, and pain, and death,
Cleave to him by an everlasting curse.

Tam.
Ah! talk not thus.

Had.
Is this benevolence?—
Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me;
For I was tutored in a brighter faith.
Our Syrians deem each lucid fount and stream,
Forest and mountain, glade and bosky dell,
Peopled with kind divinities, the friends
Of man, a spiritual race allied
To him by many sympathies, who seek
His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts,
Cool with their waves, and fan him with their airs.
O'er them, the Spirit of the Universe,
Or Soul of Nature, circumfuses all
With mild, benevolent, and sun-like radiance;
Pervading, warming, vivifying earth,
As spirit does the body, till green herbs,
And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars rise;
And shooting stellar influence through her caves,
Whence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre.

Tam.
Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams.

Had.
These Deities
They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites,
Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines
With Nature's bounties, fruits, and fragrant flowers.
Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks—

Tam.
Cast not reproach upon the holy altar.

Had.
Nay, sweet.—Having enjoyed all pleasures here
That Nature prompts, but chiefly blissful love,
At death, the happy Syrian maiden deems
Her immaterial flies into the fields,
Or circumambient clouds, or crystal brooks,
And dwells, a Deity, with those she worshipped;
Till time, or fate, return her in its course
To quaff, once more, the cup of human joy.

Tam.
But thou believ'st not this.

Had.
I almost wish
Thou didst; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar,
Thy spirit is too tender for a Law
Announced in terrors, coupled with the threats
Of an inflexible and dreadful Being,
Whose word annihilates,—who could arrest
The sun in heaven, or, if he pleased, abolish
Light from creation, and leave wretched man
To darkness,—as he did to worse, when all
His firmamental cataracts came down!—
All perished,—yet his purpose faltered not!—
His anger never dies, never remits,
But unextinguished burns to deepest hell.
Jealous, implacable—

Tam.
Peace! impious! peace!

Had.
Ha! says not Moses so?
The Lord is jealous.

Tam.
Jealous of our faith,
Our love, our true obedience, justly his;
And a poor recompense for all his favors.
Implacable he is not; contrite man,
Ne'er found him so.

Had.
But others have,
If oracles be true.

Tam.
Little we know
Of them; and nothing of their dire offence.

Had.
I meant not to displease, love; but my soul
Revolts, because I think thy gentle nature
Shudders at him and yonder bloody rites.
How dreadful! when the world awakes to light,
And life, and gladness, and the jocund tide
Bounds in the veins of every happy creature,
Morning is ushered by a murdered victim,
Whose wasting members reek upon the air,
Polluting the pure firmament; the shades
Of evening scent of death; almost, the shrine
Itself, o'ershadowed by the Cherubim;
And where the clotted current from the altar
Mixes with Kedron, all its waves are gore.
Nay, nay, I grieve thee;—'t is not for myself,
But that I fear these gloomy things oppress
Thy soul, and cloud its native sunshine.

Tam.
(in tears, clasping her hands.)
Witness, ye Heavens! Eternal Father, witness!
Blest God of Jacob! Maker! Friend! Preserver!
That with my heart, my undivided soul,
I love, adore, and praise thy glorious name,
Confess thee Lord of all, believe thy Laws
Wise, just, and merciful, as they are true.
O, Hadad, Hadad! you misconstrue much
The sadness that usurps me;—'t is for thee
I grieve,—for hopes that fade,—for your lost soul,
And my lost happiness.

Had.
O, say not so,
Beloved Princess. Why distrust my faith?

Tam.
Thou know'st, alas, my weakness; but remember,
I never, never will be thine, although
The feast, the blessing, and the song were past,
Though Absalom and David called me bride,
Till sure thou own'st, with truth, and love sincere
The Lord Jehovah.

Had.
Leave me not—Hear, hear—
I do believe—I know that Being lives
Whom you adore. Ah! stay—by proofs I know
Which Moses had not.

Tam.
Prince, unclasp my hand.

(Exit.)
Had.
Untwine thy fetters if thou canst.—How sweet
To watch the struggling softness! It allays
The beating tempest of my thoughts, and flows,
Like the nepenthe of Elysium through me.
How exquisite! Like subtlest essences,
She fills the spirit! How the girdle clips
Her taper waist with its resplendent clasp!
Her bosom's silvery-swelling network yields
Ravishing glimpses, like sweet shade and moonshine
Checkering Astarte's statue—

Enter a Slave.
Slave.
One in haste
Inquires for you, my lord.

Had.
I come.

(Exeunt.)

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An apartment in Absalom's house. Abasalom and Hadad in discourse.
Ab.
But you still speak as if a heavy doubt
Burthened your tongue. Be plain. Think you his love
Exceeds a parent's charter?

Had.
Troth, my lord,
I scarce know how to answer. All my hopes
Are so ingraft to yours, that I may see
With jealous eyes. What casts a shade o'er you,
Leaves me in darkness palpable; for I,
With lineal honors, may a jewel lose
Far dearer than Damascus' diadem.

Ab.
Think you—I say—the aim of his fond dotage
Transcends the sacred limits of my rights?

Had.
Why, then, my lord, I must confess, this flux
Of zeal, and duty, and officious homage,
Observable of late, enforces me
To think some ears about the Prince have caught
What else I had believed an envious fable.

Ab.
What fable?

Had.
Such I held it, and, as such,
My duty bade me keep it. Curse the tongue
Whence slanderous rumor, like the adder-drop,
Distils her venom, withering friendship's faith,
Turning love's favor—

Ab.
On, on.

Had.
My lord, a whisper steals about the city,
Not widely known, or current for a truth,
But credited by some,—that, wrought upon
By Joab and the Seer, the King has named
The royal heir.

Ab.
Ha!—and I not know it?

Had.
Twice in the gates, and thrice upon the walls,
Was I saluted yesterday, and asked
If my lord Absalom had heard the rumor.
'T is said, to make the choice irrevocable,
Young Solomon has received, by Nathan's hand,
The private unction.

Ab.
Vengeance!—What! anoint him!—
Trumpet to all mankind the damned deed
That scandals his gray hairs, and robs his life
Of half its lustre!

Had.
O, my lord, that 's past;
And Time, sin's varnisher, hath done his office.

Ab.
Good heaven! his very angel hides his face,
Even at the name of Bathsheba—

Had.
But mark:—
'T is but a rumor, we may hope unfounded:
Though ephod-wearers stroke their beards and smile.

Ab.
Founded or false, it wears a treasonous face,
And looks defiance. Mitred heads, beware!
And younger brothers!—Death! ere Absalom
Tamely behold the lineal ornament
Plucked from his crest,—Jerusalem shall quake!
(Paces to and fro in agitation, then suddenly stops.)
If I have forfeited my birthright, name
The action!—Name the hardship, name the hazard,
That I have shrunk from in the public cause!—
Expound me—show me—on what plea, pretext,
Precedent, yonder harlot's stripling dares
Aspire before the Son of Queens, who girt
His harness in the field ere he was born.

Had.
Let Joab answer.

Ab.
Were there in 't
A face of justice—But to see my rights
Slighted and trampled by a stabbing ruffian,
A father's favor poisoned by the breath
Of an old visionary; be left blank,
Because I scorn to flatter, and protest
My loyalty for favor, strips me bare
Of patience; and I swear, ere brook such wrong,
I'll give their chronicles a bloodier leaf
Than Amnon's.

Had.
Pause not. Snatch the prize
From brows that totter with the mighty burthen.

Ab.
(with surprise.)
Kinsman!—
I threat usurpers.

Had.
Frown not, nor be amazed
That I outstrip you. Hadad's every hope,
Life, royalty, and liberty, and love,
Depend on Absalom. Who knows how soon
Those precious counsellors, who hide the beams
Of royal grace from you, may stigmatize
Damascus as a dangerous neighbour; hint
That I am turbulent, and apt for war,
And may, hereafter, shake the peace of Judah;
Suggest a dungeon safer than a throne,
While Pharpar's lovely vale might bloom as fair
Beneath his Adonijah's sceptre? Else,
Why am I held assurance for the faith
Which Syria never broke?—never, my lord,—
Those levies which gave umbrage were to check
The insolence of Bosra. Not an hour
Stand I assured of life or liberty,
Till Israel's crown empale my kinsman's head.—
Assents he to the alliance, which would rest
The pledge of amity?—If his intents
Be fair, why hesitate?—Can policy
Devise a surer bond to knit the kingdoms?

Ab.
No matter,—King or no King's leave,—she 's thine.

Had.
I'm grappled to your fortunes. But, my lord,
Is not the bond 'twixt child and parent charged
With mutual duties? If my father stint
His love, neglect my nurture, cast me off,
Or give my lawful portion to another,
Am I his debtor still, in reverence, love,
Obedience? or 's the obligation cancelled?

Ab.
Enough,—I'll sift, I'll sift it.

Had.
Might we not
Extract it from the boy?

Ab.
Thou hast a tongue
That strikes like music; thou mightst charm his heart
To drop its secret.

Had.
But how to meet?—The Prophet guards his steps
Close as his shadow.

Ab.
Oft, of late, I see him
Walking the Paradise and neighbouring orchards,
With studious looks, among the plants and flowers,
With but a slave: there you may meet him daily.

Had.
Perhaps Mephibosheth might lend us light:
He watches all things with a dragon's eye.

Ab.
Assail him.

Had.
Promises may make him speak;—
But golden ones.

Ab.
Nay, promise what you must.

Had.
And you be ignorant, my lord,—that 's best.
He carries strength; for Benjamin would cleave
To any cause that served the House of Saul.

Ab.
Go now in search of them. Bid, as you pass,
Ahithophel attend me.

Had.
Yes, my lord.

(Exit.)
Ab.
Can it be?—
Can he still bend on me those eyes, whose beams
Of grace and glory I have coveted
As Heaven, and sought by noblest acts to win.
Still can he greet me with that brow of love,
Radiant as Moses', yet in secret stab?
Stab where he knows 't will rankle to the death?—
If this be so, what need I care for aught?—
I never in my proudest thought aspired
To his soul's grandeur. Death it is to think
How villanous counsels warp the noble mind
From nature's bias!—Cursed be his misleaders!—
The crown is mine,—by birth, by purchase mine,—
And who shall rob me of my glorious right?—

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

The King's Paradise, without the walls. Hadad pacing up and down one of the walks. He stops as he fronts the city.
Had.
'T is so;—the hoary Harper sings aright:
How beautiful is Zion!—Like a queen,
Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness,
Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass,
She sits aloft, begirt with battlements
And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard
The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,
Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods
That tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses,
Wave their dark beauty round the Tower of David.
Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrazures of alabaster shine;
Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah's mart with Orient merchandise.—
But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned,
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where Saints and Seers denounce,—where the stern Law
Incessant thunders,—where chief Angels watch,
And where the Glory hovers,—one sweet voice
More fills mine ear, one neck of snow more awes me!
Ha! hold—the object of my search approaches—
Now, if the tale be truth—or forged, more like,
By dark Ahithophel

Ahithopel appears to have been the grandfather of Bathsheba. His enmity to David is imputed by the Jews to resentment on her account.

—all 's one!—Ambition
Seethes in his bosom, like the Asphaltic caves,
Whose black and bitter substance, boiling up,
A spark will kindle.—This young minion's eye,
Thick clustering auburn curls, and sanguine cheek,
Reveal the destined worshipper of beauty.
Enter Solomon, attended by two Slaves.
Good morrow, little Prince.

Sol.
Health to you, Sir.

Had.
What fragrant flowers are those you carry?

Sol.
Buds
Of Median myrtle, mandrake flowers, and camphire.

Had.
(scenting them.)
They 're passing sweet.—
What dark-eyed favorite didst thou pluck them for?

Sol.
For no one.

Had.
Ha, methinks they 'd rarely grace
A lily bosom: many an one would pant,
At such a token from a gallant Prince.

Sol.
I plucked them for my herbal.

Had.
Grace defend me,
Ere I had reached your age, I held sweet flowers
Created for no end but to adorn
Young damsels, whose dark locks I loved to braid,
And twine with rosy wreaths, and prank their bosoms.
Intended for the throne, as you are, Prince,
The loveliest virgins in my uncle's court
Caressed me secretly with amorous gifts,
And smiled at favors which I ravished from them.
Should you not like a sweet young loving maid
To toy with, and present with knots of flowers?

Sol.
No.

Had.
But why? it were a harmless pleasure.

Sol.
Because I would not waste my prime in dalliance.
The thrifty proverb bids us plant, in youth,
To blossom in our manhood, and bear fruit,
When we are old. Besides, 't is said by those
Most like to know, 't is not for Princes' sons
To follow wantons, or to love spiced drinks.

Had.
Kings are meant there, or sons of Kings, at least.
On whom the government will rest;—but that,
Perchance, will be your lot?

Sol.
Perchance.

Had.
Nay, more,
'T is said the King has named you to the throne?

Sol.
Things, oft, are said.

Had.
(after a pause.)
But tell me truly, if a beauteous damsel,
Like those young delicates about your mother,
With skin like ermine, cheeks like wind-flowers, hair
Like aragamen, eyes like the gazelle,
Her lips a braid of scarlet—

Sol.
Or like my cousin Tamar.

Had.
Is she so tempting fair?

Sol.
So Hadad thinks.

Had.
Who told you that, my little Prince?

Sol.
Your eyes.

Had.
Speak they so plain?

Sol.
Not speak; they burn.
For when you gaze upon her beauteous face,
I see them kindle like the ruddy lamps
That flame within the tabernacle.

Had.
Well,
Do not all eyes the same, whene'er they gaze
On beauteous woman, Nature's masterpiece?

Sol.
No, not like yours.

Had.
Hold, here 's a box of perfume,
Sent to the King mine uncle from the East,
From far Serendib. Smell it, Prince.

Sol.
'T is rare.—
It glides like magic through me.—Nay, I prithee,
Give 't me again.

Had.
(aside.)
It works.—Behold the lid.

Sol.
Ye powers! what matchless youth and maid are there?

Had.
Venus and Tammuz.

Sol.
Never did my eyes
Behold a sight so lovely.

Had.
Wouldst thou know
Their story?

Sol.
Troth, I would.

Had.
Then sit we here
Beneath this spreading terebinth. And first,
As you 've been straitly watched, and kept so long
In ignorance of things a Prince should know,
I'll tell you by what chance, ere I had reached
Your comely stature, I grew wiser.

Sol.
Do.

Had.
Behind my uncle's palace spreads a park,
With lawns, and glades, sunned plats, and darksome woods,
Through which cool Abana, clear as this fount,
Winds gently past delightful arbours, shades,
And green retirements from the noontide heat.
There, in a solitary nook, o'erhung
With trees of ancient beauty, where the stream
Had scooped a little basin, fringed with flowers
Even to the brim, and screened from observation
By blossomed boughs, and aromatic shrubs
Clustering impervious—

Sol.
Like the very bank
Where these sweet lovers lie.

Had.
Much like it, Prince.
There had I stolen, one day, from my attendants,
And lay along beneath a tuft of henna,
Watching the idle water. Soon, I heard
The sound of voices, soft, and silver sweet,
Approaching in the wood. I kept me still.—
Anon, two heavenly damsels of the Queen's
Entered the little arbour, and sat down
Full in my view and hearing. One was white
As the young lily, with luxuriant braids
Of ebony; the other's blooming cheek,
Like the pomegranate, blushed through locks of gold.
Awhile they talked and laughed, (love all their theme,)
With merry eyes, and bright carnation lips,
Which deepened as they told their amorous stories.
At last, the dark-haired maid proposed to lave
Their limbs and glowing breasts in Abana,
Unsandalled her fair foot, undid the clasps,
And drew the jewelled buskin from a leg
Of ivory, to try the water's—
Enter Nathan, from a walk near them.
—Ha! Prince,
The box!

Sol.
(running to Nathan.)
Look, father, what a beauteous pair!
And smell the perfume Hadad gave to me:
'T is sweeter than the richest aloes.

(The Prophet examines the perfume; then dashes it on the ground.)
Nath.
(approaching Hadad sternly.)
Who, what art thou, foul poisoner?—that durst
Abuse with forms and philters this young prince?—
Who art thou?—Is it for the love of sin?—
Or art thou leagued, for some infernal purpose,
Against the House of David?—Answer, Devil!
Who art thou?

Had.
(pale and agitated.)
One unused to terms like these,
And will requite them, reverend man of God.

Nath.
Glare not upon me with those fiendlike eyes,
Thou haggard, guilt-confounded wretch.—I curse thee—
I curse thee, and defy thee,—in Heaven's name!
Come, boy.

(Exit with Solomon.)
Had.
(gnashing his teeth.)
Would Hell's eternal fire were round thee! Hell's
Undying viper gnawing at thy heart!—
(Pacing violently backwards and forwards, checks himself, as fearful of being observed.)
Whence—wherefore—this detested flesh can front
Worst death, yet quails before a tottering bald-head—
Whence could he come, with such a thief-like step?—
Cursed clods! too dull for aught but thunder—Ha!
Enter Absalom, at a distance.
He comes to know our conference—'T is well—
Gloom and resentment in his mien. He seems
Prepared for darker searching.—When he shakes
Those ominous locks, I know the clime within,
As the wind's temper by the lashing woods.

Ab.
What! hast thou seen him?

Had.
Yes, my lord.

Ab.
What said
The cockatrice?

Had.
Wary and shrewd he seems,
And shunned my questions; lessoned well, no doubt.
Ere I had fully proved him, Nathan broke
Imperiously upon us, and, with threats,
Dragged him away.

Ab.
I'll know, if Hell be moved
To answer.

Had.
Have you seen Ahithophel?

Ab.
He smooths it o'er, but shakes his head, and looks
More than he dares confess.

Had.
What! will not speak?

Ab.
Not plainly, but believes, or doubts, at least;
But I must be resolved. The howling damned
Know not my suffering, for they know their doom,
And steel them to endurance. Thus to live,
With hate and love, revolt and reverence,
Fighting like hungry vultures for my heart,
I cannot, will not, long.

Had.
Now would to grace
Some way—some thought—

Ab.
Hast seen Mephibosheth?

Had.
My lord— (Pauses as in reflection.)


Ab.
What is 't?—Declare thy mind.

Had.
I almost fear—but, were I Israel's Prince,
I knew my counsel.

Ab.
Palter not.

Had.
My lord,
A wondrous man is in Jerusalem,
Arrived three nights ago from Babylon,
Bound into Egypt to consult the Sages
Touching events foretold the Assyrian King.
He draws his lineage and his power from one
Named in your Chronicles, who prophesied
The Star from Jacob, and who trebly blessed
The conquering people whom the Lords of Moab
Called him to curse,—the potent sage of Pethor,
Chief of the ancient Magi. None has since
Equalled his power or piercing eye, till now;
But this far-seeing Mage, 't is said, has viewed
Earth's consummation, and declared what shall be
When the last star expires.

Ab.
What, Balaam-Haddon?

Had.
He 's here; but keeps himself from public view.
A Syrian who had known him, like myself,
In Babylon, observed his caravan
Enter an obscure court. I went, and saw.—
The awful front, and eye oracular
Were his indeed. I would consult him, Prince.

Ab.
(after a brief pause.)
But such an act might blast me. Were it known,
Idolatry! would ring from Dan to Besor.

Had.
Thence, I was doubtful to propose the step;
Not that I held you awed by Moses' threats.
But could not I obtain the intelligence
Without your motion?

Ab.
That, indeed,—

Had.
I burn
To know another thing, more near to you
Than me, which this great Magian could resolve.

Ab.
What 's that?

Had.
What Spirit 't is that serves your father.

Ab.
Spirit!

Had.
Many suppose he holds some God, or Demon,
Bond-servant to his throne, who works his will,
And hath assisted all his mighty deeds.

Ab.
This is believed?

Had.
Many believe it here,
And 't is the current faith of neighbouring Kings.
No marvel it has missed your ear, my lord,
For you pay outward reverence to the Law,
And are his son. Nor is it strange, methinks,
Nor passing reason. Look at his broad realm,
Stretched from Euphrates to the Western Sea,
From Elath to Orontes. Where is Edom?
Philistia? Ammon? Where the Syrian thrones,
Coēval with the world? Who smote the Chaldee?
Broke Elam's bow? and taught the Desert hordes
To shun his dangerous frontier? Who hath scaped
Perils unnumbered; hunted, like a wolf,
From den to den by King and people? Who,
In fourscore stricken battles, bathed his sword
In bloodiest conflict, yet sustains no scar?
Who, weaponless, o'erthrew the Giant? Who
Hath piled the gold and jewels till his vaults
Resemble spirit-mines? Who plucks the trunks
Of Lebanon, and bids them arch his roofs,
Or heaps them in the vale like reeds? Who takes
The spirit captive with his strings, or sweeps
His kinnor till the dizzy soul ascends,
As in a trance of ecstasy? My lord,
Who hath done more than these? in war, in peace,
The minion of the time, excelling all
The Kings of earth, as yonder radiant sun
The inferior orbs of heaven?—A shepherd-boy.

Ab.
True, Hadad, and it irks my inmost soul
To break my faith with such a father. Were
He less, my sin would be so.

Had.
If he wronged me,
Though brighter than the fabled Seraphim,—
Were he the God I worshipped,—I 'd fall off.

Ab.
Misery attends me either way.

Had.
My lord,
Think o'er the history of his birth, whom foes
Would foist above you; imp of an adulteress!
Remember brave Uriah bearing back
His doom, to leave the beauteous harlot free!
Had this been, if the Lord protects his fortunes?
Or such a guilt-avenging Being live?
No,—I would learn by what presiding Genius
He works his wonders;—how subjected first;—
Whether attracted by his minstrelsy;—
Or by some power residing in his star;—
Or how; for various are the ways to win
Ascendency o'er Spirits;—and this power
We know is his; for, while a beardless stripling,
His skill expelled a demon from his master.
Perhaps, my lord, power strong enough exists,
To break the pact, and lure him to your service.

Ab.
Well,—see the Mage: prove if his visioned eye
Can tell us what hath chanced. I 've deeper reason
Than you suspect, to prize their star-taught lore.
Pray him to cast our horoscopes, both mine,
And his, we fear; as for the rest, inquire
Or leave it, as you will. Thou hast not yet
Sounded Mephibosheth?

Had.
Not yet, my lord.

Ab.
Then do not, till we know the present issue.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

The house of Obil. Obil and Malcuth. A knocking.
Obil.
Woman, who knocks there?

Mal.
(looking through the lattice.)
The crook-back Maugrabin.

Obil.
Ha! open, Malcuth, open.

Mal.
Do 't thyself.
The elvish slave shall knock till doom, ere I
Unsheathe a bolt.

Obil.
Peace, shrew. (Opens the door.)


Enter Maugrabin.
Mal.
Spawn of the Nile,
What seekest thou with us?

Maug.
Thy fair company.—
Here, Obil, take this casket,—guard it safely,—
There 's more in 't than would purchase all your tribe,
Nay, every hoof that roams upon the desert.
Trust it to no hand but your master's.

Obil.
Whose?—the King's?

Maug.
Forsooth! thou feed'st his dromedaries,
And he feeds thee. But is it on his gold
Thou found'st the hope to see thy lovely sands
Once more, and view, at ease, from thy broad tent
Camels, and asses, flocks, and herds, and slaves
About thee like the Patriarch? Call him
Thy lord, who makes thee lord o'er others. No;—
Thy master Hadad.

Obil.
I'll obey.

Maug.
(to Malcuth.)
Farewell, sweet leopardess.

(Signs to Obil, who lays the casket on the table, and follows him out.)
Mal.
They 're whispering;—
Now, by our mother Hagar, but I'll see
What wondrous treasure—Lying knave! (Opening the casket.)

'T is nothing but a monstrous key,—enchased
As for some royal sepulchre—Ha! how?—
It will not close—and Maugrabin's returning.

(Throws it down, and exit.)

SCENE IV.

The terraced roof of Absalom's house, by night; adorned with vases of flowers, and fragrant shrubs: an awning spread over part of it. Tamar and Hadad.
Tam.
No, no, I well remember—proofs, you said,
Unknown to Moses.

Had.
Well, my love, thou know'st
I 've been a traveller in various climes;
Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled
The snow-clad mountains; trusted to the deep;
Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea,
And with the Wise conversed of many nations.

Tam.
I know thou hast.

Had.
Of all mine eyes have seen,
The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful,
Is that dread sage, the Ancient of the Mountain.

Tam.
Who?

Had.
None knows his lineage, age, or name: his locks
Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages.
In green, unbroken years, he sees, 't is said,
The generations pass, like autumn fruits,
Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life,
Again to perish, while he views the sun,
The seasons roll, in rapt serenity,
And high communion with celestial powers.
Some say 't is Shem, our father, some say Enoch,
And some Melchisideck.

Tam.
I 've heard a tale
Like this, but ne'er believed it.

Had.
I have proved it.—
Through perils dire, dangers most imminent,
Seven days and nights 'midst rocks and wildernesses,
And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice,
Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing,
Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared
My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish.

Tam.
Rash, rash adventurer!

Had.
On the highest peak
Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot
On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers
And verdure never die; and there he dwells.

Tam.
But didst thou see him?

Had.
Never did I view
Such awful majesty: his reverend locks
Hung like a silver mantle to his feet,
His raiment glistered saintly white, his brow
Rose like the gate of Paradise, his mouth
Was musical as its bright guardians' songs.

Tam.
What did he tell thee? O! what wisdom fell
From lips so hallowed?

Had.
Whether he possess
The Tetragrammaton,—the powerful Name
Inscribed on Moses' rod, by which he wrought
Unheard of wonders, which constrains the Heavens
To part with blessings, shakes the earth, and rules
The strongest Spirits; or if God hath given
A delegated power, I cannot tell.
But 't was from him I learned their fate, their fall,
Who, erewhile, wore resplendent crowns in Heaven;
Now, scattered through the earth, the air, the sea.
Them he compels to answer, and from them
Has drawn what Moses, nor no mortal ear,
Has ever heard.

Tam.
But did he tell it thee?

Had.
He told me much,—more than I dare reveal;
For with a dreadful oath he sealed my lips.

Tam.
But canst thou tell me nothing?—Why unfold
So much, if I must hear no more?

Had.
You bade
Explain my words, almost reproached me, sweet,
For what by accident escaped me.

Tam.
Ah!
A little—something tell me,—sure, not all
Were words inhibited.

Had.
Then, promise never,
Never to utter of this conference
A breath to mortal.

Tam.
Solemnly I vow.

Had.
Even then, 't is little I can say, compared
With all the marvels he related.

Tam.
Come,
I'm breathless.—Tell me how they sinned, how fell.

Had.
Their Prince involved them in his ruin.

Tam.
What black offence on his devoted head
Drew such dire punishment?

Had.
The wish to be
As the All-Perfect.

Tam.
Arrogating that
Peculiar to his Maker!—awful crime!
But what their doom? their place of punishment?

Had.
Above, about, beneath; earth, sea, and air;
Their habitations various as their minds,
Employments, and desires.

“The fall of Angels, therefore, was pride. Since their fall, their practices have been the clean contrary unto those before mentioned; for being dispersed, some in the air, some in the earth, some amongst the minerals, dens, and caves that are under the earth, they have by all means labored to effect an universal rebellion against the laws, and as far as in them lieth, utter destruction of the works of God.”—

Hooker, Eccles. Polity, b. 1, sec. 4.

Tam.
But are they round us, Hadad?—not confined
In penal chains and darkness?

Had.
So he said;
And so your holy books infer. What saith
Your Prophet? what the Prince of Uz?

Tam.
I shudder,
Lest some dark Minister be near us now.

Had.
You wrong them. They are bright Intelligences,
Robbed of some native splendor, and cast down,
'T is true, from heaven; but not deformed, and foul,
Revengeful, malice-working Fiends, as fools
Suppose. They dwell, like Princes, in the clouds;
Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky;
Or arch their palaces beneath the hills,
With stones inestimable studded so,
That sun or stars were useless there.

Tam.
Good heavens!

Had.
He bade me look on rugged Caucasus,
Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken,
Naked, and wild, as if creation's ruins
Were heaped in one immeasurable chain
Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms
Of everlasting winter. But within
Are glorious palaces, and domes of light,
Irradiate halls, and crystal colonnades,
Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam,
Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking
The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth.

Tam.
Unheard of wonders!

Had.
There they dwell, and muse,
And wander; Beings beautiful, immortal,
Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky;
Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come,
And glow with light intense, imperishable.
So in the sparry chambers of the Sea
And Air-Pavilions, upper Tabernacles,
They study Nature's secrets, and enjoy
No poor dominion.

Tam.
Are they beautiful,
And powerful far beyond the human race?

Had.
Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it. When
The Sage described them, fiery eloquence
Broke from his lips, his bosom heaved, his eyes
Grew bright and mystical; moved by the theme,
Like one who feels a deity within.

Tam.
Wondrous!—What intercourse have they with men?

Had.
Sometimes they deign to intermix with man,
But oft with woman.

Tam.
Ha! with woman?

Had.
She
Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft,
And beautiful, and heavenly, like themselves.
They have been known to love her with a passion
Stronger than human.

Tam.
That surpasses all
You yet have told me.

Had.
This the Sage affirms;
And Moses, darkly.

Tam.
How do they appear?—How love?—

Had.
Sometimes 't is spiritual, signified
By beatific dreams, or more distinct
And glorious apparition.—They have stooped
To animate a human form, and love
Like mortals.

Tam.
Frightful to be so beloved!—
Frightful! who could endure the horrid thought?

Had.
(after a pause.)
But why contemn a Spirit's love? so high,
So glorious, if he haply deigned?—

Tam.
Forswear
My Maker! love a Demon!

Had.
No—O, no,—
My thoughts but wandered—Oft, alas! they wander.

Tam.
Why dost thou speak so sadly now?—And lo!
Thine eyes are fixed again upon Arcturus.
Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb,
Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power
To cause or cure thy melancholy mood?—
(He appears lost in thought.)
Tell me,—ascrib'st thou influence to the stars?

Had.
(starting.)
The stars!—What know'st thou of the stars?

Tam.
I know that they were made to rule the night.

Had.
Like palace lamps! Thou echoest well thy grandsire!—
Woman! The stars are living, glorious,
Amazing, infinite!—

Tam.
Speak not so wildly.—
I know them numberless, resplendent, set
As symbols of the countless, countless years
That make eternity.

Had.
Thou speak'st the word—
O, had ye proved—like those Great Sufferers,—
Shot, once for all, the gulf,—felt myriad ages
Only the prelude,—could ye scan the void
With eyes as searching as its torments,—
Then—then—mightst thou pronounce it feelingly!

Tam.
What ails thee, Hadad?—Draw me not so close

Had.
Tamar! I need thy love—more than thy love—

Tam.
Thy cheek is wet with tears—Nay, let us part—
'T is late—I cannot, must not linger.—

(Breaks from him, and exit.)
Had.
Loved and abhorred!—Still, still accursed!—
(He paces, twice or thrice, up and down, with passionate gestures; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.)
—O! where,
In the illimitable space, in what
Profound of untried misery, when all
His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill
With life and beauty yonder infinite,
Their radiant journey run, for ever set,
Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning?

(Exit.)

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The inner apartment of David's sepulchre, filled with treasure: a sarcophagus of Egyptian porphyry standing in the centre. Enter Absalom, Hadad, and Balaam-Haddon, as from another chamber of the tomb. Balaam-Haddon carries a lamp, and a silver vessel for the burning of perfume.
B. Hadd.
Behold, my lord, the last and richest! Here,
Nothing but gold of Ophir, pearls, and gems
Of priceless value. How they catch the lamp beams,
And sparkle as I wave it, like the stars
Upon a fitful night of clouds. And lo!
The marble in whose womb he means to sleep.

Ab.
It strikes me dumb—what heaps, what mountain piles!
The pillage of the world were scarce enough
To sum the riches we have gazed upon.

Had.
But whence can he have drawn them? there 's the question.
He has pulled down, indeed, some barbarous thrones,
Made Syria tributary, and brought home
Rich spoil; but in the chambers of this rock

Josephus, speaking of the burial of David, observes:“He had great and immense wealth buried with him, the vastness of which may be easily conjectured at by what I shall now say; for, a thousand and three hundred years afterwards, Hyrcanus the High Priest, when he was besieged by Antiochus that was called the Pious, the son of Demetrius, and was desirous of giving him money to get him to raise the siege, and draw off his army; and having no other method of compassing the money, opened one room of David's sepulchre, and took out three thousand talents, and gave part of that sum to Antiochus, and by this means caused the siege to be raised, as we have informed the reader elsewhere. Nay, after him, and that many years, Herod the King opened another room, and took away a great deal of money; and yet neither of them came at the coffins of the Kings themselves.”—

Antiq. of the Jews, b. 7, ch. 15.

The riches left by David, according to the common computation, exceeded eight hundred millions sterling.

Are treasures which the empires of the earth,
United, cannot equal. Whence they come
I'm bent to know. His flocks, and herds, and tilth,
Vineyards, and olive-grounds, and all he draws
Of yearly revenue from all the tribes,
From Elath, and the Eastern caravans,
Shrink to an alms.

Ab.
I know not what to think.
The Mage must answer.

Had.
Balaam-Haddon, speak.

B. Hadd.
If there be power in incantations, spells,
Or potency in stars, or strongest magic,
Or compounds such as these, some one shall answer.
(Places the vessel on the further part of the sarcophagus, heaps drugs upon it, and kindles them by the lamp.)
Stand by me here, my lords:—observe, but speak not.
(A thick smoke rises, which envelopes the remoter part of the tomb: Absalom and Hadad stand with their eyes intently fixed upon it: Balaam-Haddon mutters an incantation, casting, from time to time, perfumes upon the flame. A form becomes dimly visible amidst the smoke; its eyes and countenance sparkling. Absalom continues silently gazing. Balaam-Haddon turns to him.)
Address your questions briefly; when the smoke
Decays, it vanishes.

Ab.
What—who—art thou?

Spirit.
The Genius of the Throne.

Ab.
Servest thou the King?

Spirit.
I serve the Throne, and him who sits thereon.

Ab.
Implying thou mightst serve his son?

Spirit.
If he
Were chief in Jewry.

Ab.
Canst thou make him so?

Spirit.
No, nor oppose: I have no present power
Upon the blood of David.

Had.
Prince, mark that!

Ab.
Canst thou foresee?—Know'st thou the past?

Spirit.
Dim shadows of the future lie before me,
Like forms in twilight: all things past I know.

Ab.
Then answer, I adjure thee; for to this
Wert thou evoked.—Is Solomon elect
To David's throne?—Has he received the unction?

Spirit.
The kingly oil hath flowed upon his locks.

Had.
Change not, my lord.—What boots a horn of oil
Against that sword, that military arm,
Thy power in Israel?

Ab.
And now I care not—Heaven or Hell to aid,
I'll prove the issue.—Spirit, art thou bound
By ties indissoluble to the King?

Spirit.
I serve the Throne, till thrice three times revolve.

Ab.
Three times—

B. Hadd.
So Spirits reckon; he will not reveal.—
Who bound thee?

Spirit.
Jesse's son.

B. Hadd.
Serv'st thou in love?

Spirit.
No; for he hath not kept his covenant.

Ab.
But shall the son of Bathsheba be King?

Spirit.
He may be, or may not.

Ab.
How know'st thou that?

Spirit.
I read it in thy horoscope.

Ab.
Know'st thou
My destiny?

Spirit.
I know what may be.

Ab.
Speak,—
Reveal,—I do beseech thee, mighty Power,
How I may hold my lawful birthright.

B. Hadd.
Speak.

Spirit.
What said the Chaldee, whom thou saw'st at Geshur?

Ab.
Ha!

Spirit.
What answer brought he from the palace tower
Of Talmai, on the night of Pentecost?

Ab.
The holy Gods!

Spirit.
A hostile Planet, near allied to thee,
Threatens eclipse and blood; o'ercome but that,
And length of days, and glory shall be thine.
That powerful Star is Solomon's, and rides
Hard by the ascendant.

Ab.
But hath not yet attained it?

Spirit.
It enters on the seventh of Tisri.

Ab.
Gods!

Had.
So near?

Ab.
Direct me. How can I o'ercome?

Spirit.
Possess the crown ere Tisri.

Ab.
Shall I, then,
Be fortunate?

Spirit.
Beyond thy father, or the happiest mortal.

Ab.
And thou wilt serve me?

Spirit.
As I now do him.

B. Hadd.
Reveal the nature of thy services.

Spirit.
I give him strength, enlarge his heart, protect
His life, extend his realm, diffuse his glory,
And rifle, at his bidding, earth, and sea.

B. Hadd.
Thou brought'st these treasures then?

Spirit.
My servants did.

Ab.
Stay—tell me—shall I see thee—

Spirit.
When thou sitt'st
Upon thy father's throne.

(The smoke disperses, the image fades and disappears.)
Ab.
By Astaroth!
My faith extended not to this:—the words,
The self-same syllables, ne'er breathed to mortal,—
In which a potent Chaldee summed my fate.

Had.
Nothing escapes them.

Ab.
Hence, Hadad, hence my fears,
My cares, my policy, my flattering arts
To win the people, and strike root so deep
That none could pluck me.—Ever in my ears
Rung the presaging voice;—and years of toil
Yield but this hairbreadth. How, in half a moon,
Could I have built my name to that great height,
Needful to front my father's power? how sought
The dangerous elements? how organized them?—
Now, like Manoah's son, my hidden strength
Can shake the kingdom when my trumpet sounds.

Had.
(to Balaam-Haddon.)
What seest thou?—what transports thee?—
(To Absalom.)
Mark!—mark him!

B. Hadd.
Far off—far off—
Enthroned upon a pedestal so high
That East and West behold it—nations kneel
To kiss its base—the symbol in its hand
Marks universal power;—its radiant head
Bears to the sky a diadem so bright
That suns look pale;—its arm gigantic crests
Heaven, like the zodiac, and o'erawes the world!—
Mountains unhoard their treasures, ocean breaks
Obedient at its footstool; every tongue
And people shout, “Hosanna to the Son
Of David!”

Had.
(starting.)
Ha!

Ab.
He faints.

Had.
The wonted trance—
Thus lay the son of Beor on Mount Pisgah,
By Balak's altars.—Powers Demonian, mark,
Record! (Aside and agitated.)


Ab.
But heard you how he spake?

Had.
He spake
The Spirit's bidding, Prince. Observed you not
The supernatural brightness of his eye,
The majesty that swelled his form, his voice
How godlike? Into him the Shadow passed,
Foretold, and left him.

Ab.
Darest thou hope for me
An empire so magnificent?

Had.
My lord, my lord, thou deem'st this little realm
Much, and aspir'st, as to the top of glory,
To rule these Tribes, and curb the neighbour Kings;
But seest not, for thou hast not roamed the world,
Kingdoms on kingdoms opening to thy view,
In prospect dazzling as the vales of Heaven;
Thrones ancient as the Flood, where mighty Kings
Rule, toward the rising sun, o'er plains where gold,
And ivory, and aloes, and almug,
Abound like olives on the hills of Judah,
Or palms by Jericho, where spicy Isles
Perfume the seas, and coral rocks and pearl
Glitter along the shore. There thou mayst win
Thy conquering way, there plant thy throne, and wield
The universal sceptre.

Ab.
Is thy tongue
Endued with witchcraft?

Had.
None thou need'st, to stand
The World's acknowledged master. Hadst thou not
The Spirit's promise, in these caves behold
A talisman, and in thy father's veterans
Unshrinking agents to thy boldest wish.
He from the sheep-cote to the sceptre rose;
Thou, with that sceptre, grasped in manhood's prime,
Mayst subjugate mankind. But such designs
Require immediate action, cannot linger
An old man's ebbing sands: that were to lose
Irreparable time, which, seized, extends
Thy empire past the pillars of Sesostris.

Ab.
Come, these are fond conceits that make one giddy.
The place, or hour, or that unearthly form,
Whose thrilling accents vibrate in my ears,
Or thy wild visions, or these heaps of gold,
Disorder me. My brain seems all on fire,
Yet a sepulchral coldness numbs my heart.
Let 's leave this treasure-house of death. I'll pause,
This night, upon it. If to-morrow dawn
Upon my unchanged purpose, thou must speed
To Geshur, and, perhaps, Damascus.

Had.
Look,
The Mage recovers; let us lead him hence.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

An apartment in Obil's house: Obil and Malcuth.
Mal.
What shakes thee so, and makes thee look so pale?

Obil.
That dromedary Fiend,—that beast of Hell,—
Lean, black, and demon-like, it stands; it eats not,
Drinks not to satisfy an ass's foal;
But ruminates the livelong day, and glares
Upon me when I enter, with an eye
Of such unnatural meaning, that I quake
Lest human words should follow. In the gloom,
Its eyeballs burn like living fires. Just now,
As in the torchlight trembling I approached it,
I thought—I swear, I thought she folded quickly
A griffin wing.

Mal.
What senseless prate is this?

Obil.
And when I wait, by night, without the walls,
Long ere his step is audible, she snorts,
Springs, rears, and trembles, turns her flaring nostril
Up toward the midnight clouds, and paws, and spurns,
And vanishes, when Hadad mounts, as yet
Earth-born Aashari never did.

Mal.
And this
Has blanched thy manhood so?

Obil.
I 've marked, besides,
When from his night-career, at dawn, he comes,
Though flaked with foam, and panting like a steed
That has outstripped the ostrich, not a hair
Is stained, no speck of clay deforms her limbs.
Hassid, our son, is bold, and he declares,
As on a gusty night he stood by Kedron
Awaiting in my stead, a spectral voice
Accosted Hadad ere beyond his hearing,
And in the hollow wind their accents mingled.

Mal.
His fear, you mean, mistook the wind for voices.

Obil.
After this present business, whose blind haste
Betides to beasts and riders length of rest,
I'll to my tents: I 've gold enough: I'll tend
No demon coursers, though a Prince bestride them.

Mal.
Thou 'dst! hold the rein barehead' to Beelzebub,
So he would stuff thy turban folds with shekels.

Obil.
Peace, cassowar! Has Maugrabin been here?

Mal.
No, no. But tell me, Obil,
Know you the purpose of these meetings?

Obil.
Hush! hark!—They bode more good to Ishmael
Than cockered Isaac—Hark! (A knocking.)
Begone I say.

(Exit Malcuth.)
(Obil passes through an outer room to the door, and returns assisting in Mephibosheth.)
Mephib.
Look to my mule, good fellow, wilt thou, quick?
Take her from sight.—And dally not.
(Exit Obil.)
Now let me breathe;—no eye beholds me here,—
But in the streets, methought, each one I met
Gazed on me, whispering with suspicious looks,
“Where goes Mephibosheth at this dusk hour?”

That David strongly suspected Mephibosheth of some participation in the rebellion, is apparent from his behaviour to Ziba. When Mephibosheth meets the King, on his return to Jerusalem, with external signs of the deepest sorrow for his misfortunes, and protests that the accusations of his servant are false and slanderous; David, instead of indignantly annulling his gift to Ziba of Mephibosheth's possessions, and inflicting the punishment he would have merited, had his master's story been believed, answers: “Why speakest thou any more of thy matters? I have said, Thou and Ziba divide the land.”—

See also Josephus: Translator's note, b. 8, ch. 11.

Voices and feet seemed following me.—'T is strange.—
How oft have I preferred the evening shade
To visit Ramah, or go down to Bethel,
Pleased with the starry dimness! Now, the night
Seems but the pall of guilt. Conspiracy!
If thou canst look so grim to me,—dethroned,
Dishonored, stripped of all my noblest rights,—
How colorest thou thy devilish front to him,
The chief conspirer?—What,
(Re-enter Obil.)
are they not come?

Obil.
O, yes, my lord, since the first watch.

Mephib.
What! what!

Obil.
This way, my lord.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

Another apartment. Absalom, Hadad, Ahithophel, Manasses, and Malchiah, seated round a table, with lights and parchments, in consultation. Enter Obil, with Mephibosheth.
Ab.
Good even, Prince.

Ahith.
Prosperity to Benjamin.

Mephib.
Health to my lord,—to grave Ahithophel,—
To all. (Seats himself at the table.)


Had.
Time urges. Shall we call in Caleb?

Ab.
Ay, instantly.
(Obil goes out, on a sign from Hadad. Absalom turns to Mephibosheth.)
Prince, all the northern Tribes,
To Benjamin are sure. Here are the seals
Of Gad and Reuben: Naphtali is sworn,
And Pagiel, their prince, has twice passed down,
Communing with our partisans as far
As Shiloh. Twenty thousand valiant men
Wait but our summons. Such, in brief, these letters,
All verbally confirmed by faithful couriers,
Whose words and pledges we have ta'en to-night.

Mephib.
Business has thriven, my lord, in my poor absence.

Re-enter Obil with a Courier.
Ab.
What tidings. Caleb, from the hill country?

Courier.
Every face, my Prince,
Is lifted to salute the sun.

Ahith.
All tiptoe on the mountains, say'st thou?—Well,
A speedy and a glorious dawn awaits them,
A rising such as Judah never saw.

Ab.
What cities hast thou greeted?

Courier.
All the chief
From Ajalon to Kadesh.—This, from Giloh,
My lord Ahithophel; this from the chiefs
Of Ziph and Lachish.

(Takes letters from the folds of his cap for Absalom and Ahithophel.
Ahith.
(after perusing his despatches.)
All 's well; and bids us not delay.

Ab.
This missive
Seals our resolves. It comes from Ithamar.—
Our royal trumpet will be blown in Hebron
At the sixth hour to-morrow?

Mephib.
(starting.)
How! to-morrow?

Malchi.
To-morrow, Prince?

Ab.
Ten thousand men encamp
Before it ere that hour. By eventide,
The news must be beyond the Kishon.

Mephib.
(aside.)
Moses!

Ahith.
Be not surprised, my lords: our safety lies
In suddenness. The cloud is in the heaven,
The bolt must fly, or men will shun it.

Manass.
Yes, but—

Had.
Pardon, my lord Manasses,—I am rude,—
And sage Ahithophel, our reverend Thummim,
Grant me a word. We twice have been convened,
Without our friends Malchiah and Manasses.
Briefly to them I state what you have heard.—
I have myself passed through the Tribes; with all
The Princes, Judges, powerful of our friends,
Held personal conference; to the nicest point
Instructed them; ta'en pledges; armed their mouths
With potent arguments; explaining thus
The strong necessity of all we do.
The King, whom Heaven preserve! declined in years,
Lets fall the reins; oppressors lord it; wrongs
Cry in the streets with none to hear; the Judge
Sits not between the gates; the King nor hears,
Nor substitutes: imperious Joab rules
God's heritage, and shakes his bloody hand
Over the innocent: old Nathan sits
Close at his master's ear, whispering against
The People's Chosen, bent to crown the boy,
Whom secretly, 't is said, he hath affianced
To Pharaoh's infant daughter. When the fit
Of penitential horror shakes the King,
He talks of Amnon,—fratricide,—and blood
Demanding expiation, and alarms
His mind infirm with guilt and punishment.
Thus stands the kingdom; thus your cherished hopes
Totter to downfall. And will warlike Israel
Behold her lawful, her elected Prince
Undone by treacherous instruments? submit
Her stainless sceptre to a murderer's hand?
For what awes ruthless Joab from the crown
But Absalom? Think you, a Prince's blood,
A helpless youth, were sacred in his sight
If David slept, and Absalom were not,
Who, only, never feared him? Men of Israel,
Would you perpetuate your royal line,
Age must resign the rod of power to manhood.—
With these, my lords, and other arguments
Suggested by the wise Ahithophel,
Are they replenished, and prepared for action.

Manass.
Then let us on.

Had.
My uncle promises
Full fifteen thousand footmen, and is pledged
A thousand chariots, and five thousand horse
By Hadadezer, if the sword decide it:
Our grandsire Talmai empties all his realm.

Malchi.
I'm satisfied, my lord.

Mephib.
Sirs, may the son of Saul
A moment's audience crave?

Ab.
Speak, worthy Prince.

Mephib.
My lord, I have allied to this great cause
The strongest Tribe save Judah. I demand
Recognisance, before these witnesses,
Of promises not mentioned, as were meet,
Before this solemn sitting.—Yes, my lords,
I claim his oath, that, if by me, the strength
Of Benjamin were added, he would bound
His power by Jordan eastward, and resign
The ancient sovereignty of Ishbosheth
To me, the lineal heir. (A pause.)


Manass.
Can this be so?

Malchi.
Divide the sceptre!

Ahith.
(smiting the table.)
Never!

Mephib.
But he hath sworn it.

Ab.
If the Tribes consented.

Mephib.
The pledge was absolute,—
There stands your organ. Let him answer.

Ab.
Hadad?

Had.
My lord Mephibosheth,—if I err not,—
That promise was conditioned on—

Mephib.
Nothing!—
By God's Ark! 't was a solemn gage,—unclogged,—
And bound his princely honor to enforce it.

(Hadad draws Absalom apart.)
Manass.
We have no right to mutilate the sceptre;
The royalty is Judah's.

Ahith.
Fixed in him:
A right perpetual promised.

Mephib.
Ye mock,—ye mock!
A right forsooth!—By what right sit ye here
In treasonous council? Plead ye right for this—

Had.
The sooner, Prince, the better.

Ab.
(to Mephib.)
The question of divided sovereignty
Requiring grave debate, and general sanction,
Must wait the assembling of the Tribes, my lord.—
Let us dissolve now: all is understood.—
My father's leave is won, to sacrifice
In solemn state at Hebron, to fulfill
My vow in Geshur. Meet me there to-morrow.
The flower of Judah will attend in arms.
Stir with the dawn; nor marvel if ye spy
Friends of the King upon the way: I 've bid
Two hundred follow us, the more to cloak
The enterprise. And now, my lords, farewell.

Manass.
Farewell.

Malchi.
Farewell and prosper, noble Prince.

Ab.
Take separate streets, you who ascend to Zion.
I keep the west, by Millo.

Manass.
We'll be guarded.

(Exeunt all but Hadad, Mephibosheth, and Obil.)
Mephib.
Fit recompense
For trusting traitors!—Fellow, bring my mule.

Had.
Stay.—
You go not forth to-night.

Mephib.
How now!
Thou shuffling, perjured—

Had.
Curb your passion, Prince.

Mephib.
Now, by the bones of Saul—Bring forth my mule.

Had.
(to Obil.)
Stir, and thou diest.

Mephib.
Ruffian, meanest to slay me?

Had.
Hear me, my lord. The Prince's words, 't is true,
I strained beyond their—

Mephib.
Leprous Gentile!
Lie to your brutish gods, lie not to me!

Had.
No matter: you and I best know the wherefore:—
But danger 's in thine eye, and I'll not risk
The safety of the state. You must repose
Beneath good Obil's roof to-night.

Mephib.
Abhorred,
Damned, heathen parasite—

Had.
Tush! have a care!
(Half draws his dagger, with a threatening glance: then turns to Obil.)
Provide thy best for Prince Mephibosheth;
Respect him as myself; but if he look
Beyond thy doors ere the third morning hour,
Your blood be on ye both!—What! hear'st thou?

Obil.
Master, reverently.

Had.
Remember!—eyes will be about these doors
Which ye were best avoid.—Good rest, my lord.

(Returns his dagger to the sheath, and exit. Scene closes.)

SCENE IV.

An apartment in Absalom's house. Nathan and Tamar.
Nath.
But tell me, hast thou ever noted
Amidst his many shining qualities
Aught strange or singular?—unlike to others?
That caused thy wonder? even to thyself
Moved thee to say, “How?—Wherefore 's this?”

Tam.
Never.

Nath.
Nothing that marked him from the rest of men?—
Hereafter you shall know why thus I question.

Tam.
O yes, unlike he seems in many things:
In knowledge, eloquence, high thoughts.

Nath.
Proud thoughts
Thou mean'st?

Tam.
I'm but a young and simple maid,
But, father, he, of all my ears have judged,
Is master of the loftiest, richest mind.

Nath.
How have I wronged him; deeming him more apt
For intricate designs, and daring deeds,
Than contemplation's solitary flights.

Tam.
Seer, his far-soaring thoughts ascend the stars,
Pierce the unseen abyss, pervade, like light,
The universe, and wing the infinite.

Nath.
(fixing his eyes upon her.)
What stores of love, and praise, and gratitude,
He thence must bring to Him whose mighty hand
Fashioned their glories, hung yon golden orbs
Amidst his wondrous firmament; who bids
The day-spring know his place, and sheds from all
Sweet influences; who bars the haughty sea,
Binds fast his dreadful hail, but drops the dew
Nightly upon his People! How his soul,
Returning from its quest through Earth and Heaven,
Must glow with holy fervor!—Doth it, maiden?

Tam.
Ah! father, father, were it so indeed,
I were too happy.

Nath.
How!—expound thy words.

Tam.
Though he has trod the confines of the world,
Knows all its wonders, and almost has pierced
The secrets of eternity, his heart
Is melancholy, lone, discordant, save
When love attunes it into happiness.
He hath not found, alas, the peace which dwells
But with our Fathers' God.

Nath.
And canst thou love
One who loves not Jehovah?

Tam.
O, ask not.

Nath.
(fervently.)
My child! thou wouldst not wed an Infidel?

Tam.
(in tears.)
O no! O no!

Nath.
Why then this embassage? Why doth your sire
Still urge the King? Why hast thou hearkened it?

Tam.
There was a time when I had hopes,—when truth
Seemed dawning in his mind,—and sometimes, still,
Such heavenly glimpses shine, that my fond heart
Refuses to forego the hope, at last,
To number him with Israel.

Nath.
Beware!
Or thou 'lt delude thy soul to ruin. Say,
Doth he attend our holy ordinances?

Tam.
He promises observance.

Nath.
Two full years
Hath he abode in Jewry.

Tam.
Prophet, think
How he was nurtured—in the faith of Idols.—
That impious worship long since he abjured
By his own native strength; and now he looks
Abroad through Nature's works, and yet must rise—

Nath.
Speaks he of Moses?

Tam.
Familiar as thyself.

Nath.
I think thou saidst he had surveyed the world?

Tam.
O, father, he can speak
Of hundred-gated Thebes, towered Babylon,
And mightier Nineveh, vast Palibothra,
Serendib anchored by the gates of morning,
Renowned Benares, where the Sages teach
The mystery of the soul, and that famed Ilium
Where fleets and warriors from Elishah's Isles
Besieged the Beauty, where great Memnon fell:—
Of pyramids, temples, and superstitious caves
Filled with strange symbols of the Deity;
Of wondrous mountains, desert-circled seas,
Isles of the ocean, lovely Paradises,
Set, like unfading emeralds, in the deep.

Nath.
Yet manhood scarce confirms his cheek.

Tam.
All this
His thirst of knowledge has achieved; the wish
To gather from the wise eternal Truth.

Nath.
Not found where he has sought it, and has led
Thy wandering fancy.

Tam.
O, might I relate—
But I bethink me, father, of a thing
Like that you asked.—Sometimes, when I'm alone,—
Just ere his coming,—I have heard a sound,
A strange, mysterious, melancholy sound,—
Like music in the air. Anon, he enters.

Nath.
Ha! is this oft?

Tam.
'T is not unfrequent.

Nath.
Only
When thou 'rt alone?

Tam.
I have not heard it else.

Nath.
A sound like what?

Tam.
Like wild, sad music, father;
More moving than the lute or viol touched
By skilful fingers. Wailing in the air
It seems around me, and withdraws as when
One looks and lingers for a last adieu.

Nath.
Just ere he enters?

Tam.
At his step it dies.

Nath.
Mark me.—Thou know'st 't is held by righteous men,
That Heaven intrusts us all to Holy Watchers,

“Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their Angels do always behold the face of my Father, which is in heaven.”— Matt. xviii. 10.

“Are they not all ministering Spirits, sent forth to minister for them who should be heirs of salvation?”— Hebrews, i. 14.

“The Angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.”— Psalm xxxiv. 7.

The Jews universally believed in Guardian Angels.

Who ward us from the Tempter.—This I deem
Some intimation of an unseen danger.

Tam.
But whence?

Nath.
Time may reveal: meanwhile, I warn thee,
Trust not thyself alone with Hadad.

Tam.
Think'st thou—

Nath.
I scarce know what I think,—my thoughts are troubled.
If some lewd Spirit, taken with thy beauty,
Or plotting to deceive and disunite us,
Could put on human semblance, this were he.

Tam.
O! father, father—

Nath.
Inscrutable he seems, yet ever busy;
His mocking eye insults, while it emits
The malice of the serpent: snake-like, too,
He slinks away, even while his looks dart fury.
Nay, nay—I lay not to his charge—I know
Little of him, though I have supplicated—
I will not wound thee with my dark suspicions—
But shun the peril thou art warned of, shun
What looks like danger though we haply err.
Be not alone with him I charge thee.

Tam.
Seer,
I will avoid it.

Nath.
All is ominous:
The Oracles are mute, dreams warn no more,
Urim and Thummim keep their glory hid,
My days are dark, my nights are visionless,
Jehovah hath forsaken, or in wrath,
Resigned us for a season. Times like these
Are jubilee in Hell. Fiends walk the Earth,

“And the Lord said unto Satan, Whence comest thou? Then Satan answered the Lord and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.”—

Job, i. 7.

Misleading princes, tempting poor men's pillows,
Supplying moody hatred with the dagger,
Lust with occasions, treason with excuses,
Lifting man's heart, like the rebellious waves,
Against his Maker. Watch, and pray, and tremble;
So may the Highest overshadow thee!

(Nathan retires, followed slowly out by Tamar.)

SCENE V.

The gate of the city, looking down the valley toward Enrogel. Several Citizens sitting in the gate. The Warden walking with his truncheon in his hand.
First Cit.
Know you what enterprise our Prince intends
After the sacrifice?

Second Cit.
No; doth he any?

First Cit.
Eliab's son, last night, 'twixt this and Hebron
Met his war chariot and his battle steeds.

Warden.
The Prince went forth at dawn this morning, Sir,
Upon a mule. His chariot has not passed.

First Cit.
But Amariah saw it.

Warden.
When? last night?

First Cit.
Journeying this way, about the second watch,
He heard the clang of hoofs, and, drawing close
Beneath some sycamores, beheld it pass,
Horses, equerries, and a baggage wain,
That clashed, the place being rough, as filled with arms.

Third Cit.
But this is strange.

Third Cit.
But this is strange.

Warden.
It did not pass this gate.

Third Cit.
Why go about?

First Cit.
Perhaps he meditates
A swoop upon the restless Edomite.

Second Cit.
Look! who comes there at speed?

First Cit.
See how for life he dashes through the brook,
And up the hill.—Ha! look!—the animal
Is spent, and falls—

Second Cit.
He stops not—lo! he comes
Like the sped arrow. 'T is some messenger.

Warden.
Fall back, and let him pass.
(Warden calls aloud.)
What for King David?

(A messenger rushes through the gate.)
Mess.
War tidings—Bar the gates!—

(Passes up into the city.)
Citizens.
What can it mean?—Let 's after.

(Exeunt into the city.)
Warden.
His looks were ominous. I'll to the tower,
And see if any hostile shape approaches.

(Exit.)

SCENE VI.

Tamar walking on the roof of her father's house.
Tam.
Once, in his gentle countenance, methought,
Love grew on reverence, as my lips described
The power, the patience, purity, and faith
Of our Almighty Father!—Then I hoped
His spirit, tempered by its earthly passion,
Fast ripening for a love that never dies!—
Most strange!—Incomprehensible the more,
The more I think!—All tenderness, all love,
He seemed,—happy and social as a child:—
But now into such deeps of thought he lapses,
So like despair,—as makes me weep, or, rather,
Tremble, when snatched by some ungoverned transport—
What sounds are those?—A tumult?—'T is the cry
And rush of multitudes!—What noise is that?

(To Bagoas, who enters hastily.)
Bag.
'T is nothing, Princess.—Come within.

Tam.
Hark!—Hark!—
The clamor rises!

Bag.
Nay, most honored Princess—

(Attempts to lead her away.)
Tam.
Unhand me, slave!

Bag.
Beseech ye—stern was his command
Thou shouldst not stir abroad, or look without,
Until my lord's return. My life must answer 't.

Tam.
(looking from the parapet.)
Good heavens!—What dire disaster?—Whence that throng
Of frantic women—children—ancient men
Tearing their beards and garments—Ha! the Ark!
Abiathar and Zadok weeping by it—
The Priests and Levites—Gracious God! some foe
Hath sure surprised us!—Hear me!—People!—Friends!—

Bag.
Hark, lady!—Princess,—

(Kneels.)
Tam.
Horror! there's the King—
Barefoot—amidst his weeping household—

Bag.
No, no—

Tam.
His gray head bare—his mantle rent!—O, hear me!
(Stretching her hands to the people below.)
Look up!—O, answer me!—My father David!—

Bag.
(drawing her away.)
Cry not, but listen—

Tam.
(breaking from him, rushes again to the parapet.)
Ho! hear me!—Levites!—Friends!—Will no one answer?

Bag.
I'll answer, lady: call not to the people.

Tam.
(wildly.)
What has befallen him?—wherefore's the tumult?

Bag.
Your grandsire is no longer King.

Tam.
Alas!
Is Zion taken?

Bag.
Not by foes.—The Prince,
Your father, wears, to-day, the Hebrew crown.

Tam.
(thunderstruck.)
My father!

Bag.
Surely, Princess;—look not pale.

Tam.
(gasping for breath.)
My father—my—

Bag.
By all the gods, 't is true,—may wrath o'ertake me
If I deceive you,—crowned this day at Hebron.
What say'st?—thy white lips move—

(Tamar falls senseless.)

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The top of Mount Olivet, crowded with fugitives from Jerusalem: King David, surrounded by his household, worshipping: the Cherethites and Pelethites restrain the People from pressing upon him. Joab, Benaiah, and other armed Chiefs, marshalling the multitude.
Ben.
Go bid yon loiterers hasten over Kedron,
If they would march with us.

Joab.
Let them abide:—
Why crawl they after us?—What seest thou, ho?

(Addressing a Soldier stationed in a tree above him.)
Soldier.
Nothing, my lord, but people from the city
Hurrying this way.

Joab.
Look not on them, fool: fix
Thine eyes upon the south.

Soldier.
I do, my lord.

Joab.
What seest thou toward the Prince's pillar?

Soldier.
Nothing.

Joab.
On that same open height beyond it?

Soldier.
Nothing.

Joab.
Well, nail thine eyes there.—Will the old man's prayer
Stretch out till doom? Benaiah, we lose time;
We should be now beyond Bahurim.

Ben.
Be patient;
The stroke was bitter, and his heart seemed fraught
Almost to bursting.

Joab.
Better rive at once,
Than meet the tender mercies of his son
By loitering here. By Heaven, I'll rouse him—

Ben.
Hold,
Hold, Joab!

People.
Stand aside!—Back there!—The King!

(King David comes forward among the People: Enter Hushai, with his garments rent; he falls to the ground, and clasps the King's feet.)
Hush.
God save my lord the King! Live I to see
My master thus! the Light, the Rock of Israel!

K. Dav.
Once, Hushai, once the candle of the Lord
Beamed on my head, and, like a shadowing rock,
His buckler sheltered me. Thou seest me, now,
Dark and defenceless; all my leprous sins
Wrathfully visited upon my people.

First People.
What will become of us?

Second People.
Alas! alas!
Heaven hath forsaken us!

Third People.
Woe, woe, alas!

Joab.
(going among them.)
Peace with your howling! Peace! or ye shall feast
The wild beasts of the wilderness.—My lord,
We linger here while death is at our heels.

K. Dav.
Hushai.

Hush.
Command thy servant.

K. Dav.
Turn thou back:
Mix with his council: seem as they. Thy words
May blast Ahithophel's, whose malice, else,
Will work our ruin. With us thou canst nought.—
Abiathar and Zadok stay behind,
By my commandment, with the Ark. To them
Communicate what thou canst learn of import:
They will despatch it to me by their sons,
Where I shall wait them in the wilderness.

Joab.
Depart ere thou art seen.

Hush.
God guard the King,
And bring him home to Zion.

(Exit.)
Soldier.
(calling from the tree.)
Joab,—my lord,—I see the flash of arms
On that same hill.—The vanguard comes—and now
The horsemen.—

Joab.
Make they for the city?

Soldier.
Straight.

Joab.
Enough; descend.—Shall we advance?

K. Dav.
Is there conveyance for the household?

Joab.
None.

People.
Yes, Ziba's here with asses.

Second People.
Only two.

Joab.
(impatiently.)
Therefore, my lord, behoves us haste. Suppose
His horse o'ertake us in the open plain,
Cumbered with women?

K. Dav.
Bid the Pelethites
Take up the youngest. Place upon the beasts
Michal and Bathsheba. Send forward some
For mules and camels, if the villages
Or fields can yield us any.—Where's the Prophet?

Joab.
Yonder, with Solomon.—Art ready, Sir?

K. Dav.
Ittai, protect the rearward. Station one
To bring intelligence.—Command the signal.

Joab.
(to his trumpeter.)
Sound.

(Trumpet sounds: exeunt the King and People, guarded by the armed bands.)

SCENE II.

The palace: an antechamber of the council-hall: Officers of Absalom's Guard, Attendants, &c., in waiting.
First Off.
Will their debate ne'er end?

Second Off.
No, by the proverb,
Never: when gossip graybeards talk, the sun
Stands still.

Enter Hadad from the hall.
Had.
(to one of the Attendants.)
What, is she come yet?

Attend.
No, my lord.

Had.
(aside.)
This is His spite!—
You bore the signet?—saw the Princess?

Attend.
Yes, my lord.

Had.
Why didst thou not stay by her when thou saw'st
The streets in tumult?

Attend.
I was bid depart.

Had.
O curse!— (Turns angrily into the hall.)


First Off.
What clouds the Syrian? What 's amiss,
(To the Attendant.)
That Hadad bites his lip with such a frown?

Attend.
The Princess, Sir, is missing.

Officers.
Missing! Ha! (They gather round him.)

But how?

Attend.
It happened thus. Imploring leave
To come unto her father, he despatched
Permission by his signet; but she came not,
Though she had thrice entreated him with tears.
It since appears, refusing all attendance,
Except a slave, she went into the streets,
And has not since been heard of.

First Off.
When was this?

Attend.
About the hour of twilight.

First Off.
'T is dark night: (Looking out.)

The city 's in confusion: she may suffer
Some shameful outrage.

Attend.
That is feared indeed:
Bagoas raves, and tears his hair, and Hadad—

Re-enter Hadad.
Had.
Brave gallants of the guard, the King commands
Ye follow me. The Princess Tamar 's lost,
This riotous night, we fear, amidst the streets.
Ride six of you, for life, to every gate,
And bid them, in the King's name, suffer none
Pass outward.—Scatter through the streets your comrades;
Pierce sharply through the people;—scan the crowds.—
If ye espy her, send me instant news
To Zion gate by Gihon. On the bridge
'Twixt the two cities I will post myself.
Away! (Exeunt Officers of the Guard.)

(To one of the Attendants.)
—Come hither. Know'st thou that dark alley
Behind the Market-place?

Attend.
I do, my lord.

Had.
Run thither. Near a lattice thou wilt see
A low, dark man, in a Scribe's gaberdine,
Devoutly searching Moses, by a lamp
Niched in the wall. Say Hadad's treasure 's lost,—
The Princess,—lost in the unruly streets,
And spirited, perhaps, into some den
Of mischief. Bid him search, and come to me
Upon the western bridge o'er Gihon. Fly!
(Exit Attendant.)
Off—off—disperse yourselves in every quarter:—
If ye hear tidings, haste to me.—Stay thou
The King's forthcoming.—He shall be enriched,
Who first salutes me with intelligence.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

The council-hall. Absalom, Ahithophel, Manasses, Malchiah, Hushai, and others, in debate: Ahithophel speaking.
Ahith.
My lord, you know them not;—you wear, to-day,
The diadem, and hear yourself proclaimed
With trump and timbrel Israel's joy, and deem
Your lasting throne established. Canst thou bless,
Or blast, like Him who rent the waters, clave
The rock, whose awful clangor shook the world
When Sinai quaked beneath his majesty?
Yet Jacob's seed forsook this thundering Guide,
Even at the foot of the astonished mount!—
If benefits could bind them, wherefore flames
The Ammonitish spoil upon thy brows,
While David's locks are naked to the night dew?
Canst thou transcend thy father? Is thy arm
Stronger than his who smote from sea to sea,
And girt us like a band of adamant?—
Trust not their faith. Thy father's root is deep:
His stock will bourgeon with a single sun;
And many tears will flow to moisten him.—
Pursue, this night, or ruin will o'ertake thee.

Ab.
What say'st thou, Hushai? Speak to this, once more.

Hush.
I listen to my lord Ahithophel,
As to a heaven-instructed oracle;
But what he urges more alarms my fears.
Thou seest, O King, how night envelopes us:
Amidst its perils, whom must we pursue?
The son of Jesse is a man of war,
Old in the field, hardened to danger, skilled
In every wile and stratagem; the night
More welcome than the day. Each mountain path
He treads instinctive as the ibex; sleeps,
Moistened with cold, dank drippings of the rock,
As underneath the canopy. Some den
Will be his bed to-night. No hunter knows
Like him, the caverns, cliffs, and treacherous passes;
Familiar to his feet, in former days,
As 'twixt the Court and Tabernacle! What!
Know ye not how his great heart swells in danger,
Like the old lion's from his lair by Jordan?—
Beware of him, by night, while chafed with anger.
Surprisal!—While we talk, they lurk in ambush,
Expectant of their prey: the Cherethites,
And those bloody-thirsty Gittites, crouch around him,
Like evening wolves: fierce Joab darts his eyes,
Keen as the leopard's, out into the night,
And curses our delay; Abishai raves;
Benaiah, Ittai, and the Tachmonite,
And they, the mighty three, who broke the host
Of the Philistines, and from Bethlehem well
Drew water, when the King but thirsted, now,
Raven like beasts bereaved of their young.—
We go not after boys, but the Gibborim,
Whose bloody weapons never struck but triumphed.

Malchi.
It were a doubtful quest.

Hush.
Hear me, O King.
Go not to night, but summon, with the dawn,
Israel's ten thousands; mount thy conquering car,
Surrounded by innumerable hosts,
And go, their strength, their glory, and their King,
Almighty to the battle; for what might
Can then resist thee? Light upon this handful,
Like dew upon the earth; or, if they bar
Some city's gates against thee, let the people
Level its puny ramparts, stone by stone,
And cast them into Jordan. Thus my lord
May bind his crown with wreaths of victory,
And owe his kingdom to no second arm.

Ahith.
O blindness! lunacy!

Hush.
I would retire;
Ye have my counsel.

Ahith.
Would thou hadst not come,
To linger out with thy pernicious talk
The hours of action.

Hush.
Wise Ahithophel,
No longer I'll offend thee. Please the King—

(Absalom waves him to resume his seat.)
Ahith.
By all your hopes, my lord, of life and glory,
I do adjure thee shut thine ears to him!
His counsel 's fatal, if not treacherous.
I see its issue, clearly as I see
The badge of royalty,—not long to sit
Where now it sparkles, if his words entice thee.—
Never was prudence in my tongue, or now.—
Blanched as I am, weak, withered, winter-stricken,
Grant but twelve thousand men, and I'll go forth.
Weary, weak-handed, what can they, if taken,
Now, in their first alarm?

Ab.
Were this resolved,
We would not task thy age. What think ye, Sirs?

Manass.
My lord, the risk is great: a night assault
Deprives us of advantage from our numbers,
Which in the open field insure success;
And news of a disaster blown about,
And magnified, just now, when all are trembling,
Might lose a Tribe, might wound us fatally.
Hushai's advice appears most prudent.

Ahith.
Fate!

Malchi.
I think so too, my lord.

Others.
And I. And I.

Ahith.
Undone!

Ab.
The council are agreed, this once,
Against you, and with them the King accords.

Ahith.
(stretching his hands toward Absalom.)
Against thyself—thy throne—thy life—thy all!—
Darkness has entered thee,—confusion waits thee,—
Death brandishes his dart at thee, and grins
At thy brief diadem!—Farewell! Farewell!—
Remember me!—I'll not be checked and rated,—
Branded with treason,—see my hoary hairs
Hooted and scoffed at, were they spared, indeed,
For such indignity.—Thou 'lt follow soon.

(Exit.)
Ab.
Or win or lose, we walk not by thy light.

Malchi.
The old man's strangely moved.

Manass.
His fury seemed
Prophetical.

Ab.
The council is dissolved,
Here to assemble in the morning early,
To order for our absence. Leave us now
To private business.

Counsellors.
Save our lord the King.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE IV.

The bridge over Gihon by the corner of Millo, between the upper and lower city: illuminations seen on the housetops: sounds of nocturnal riot and confusion in the streets: Hadad walking impatiently backwards and forwards on the bridge. Distant shouts.
Had.
(listening.)
Mouthed brutes!—King Absalom!—King Log!—I care not—
Zion sanctissime!—How bloodily
The fires of jubilee flash to the clouds!—
Or wind, or thunder's mustering! Their pale faces,
Huddled upon the housetops, look like ghosts
Come fresh from battle. Yea, were our grim confines
Peopled, polluted with a herd like this,
They were infernal. Thieves, beggars, bravoes, base
Nethinims, harlots, tattered prodigals
Flock from their holes to shout for Absalom!
The filth of Jebus—Ha! what cry is that?
(Listens anxiously.)
Where can they loiter?—Should some ruffian clasp
Her peerless beauty! Well, His sanctitude
Suffers:—there 's comfort. Hark! a rabblement
Hoots this way.—Let me shun their drunken madness.

(Retires into the shade of Millo: enter a Crowd from the lower city, shouting.)
First Crowd.
Hurrah for Absalom! King Absalom!

Second Crowd.
Down with the Graybeard!

Third Crowd.
Down with the Giant-queller!

Fourth Crowd.
Hold, Sirs,—hold, while I chant a canticle
Indited for next Feast of Tabernacles,
On that same doughty feat.

Fifth Crowd.
(drunk.)
A murrain take
Your canticles! Cry, “Long live Absalom!”

Fourth Crowd.
Whom have we there, my masters?—See ye not?
Bolt upright by the wall?—Rabbi, who art thou?
Emerge, I say:—come from the land of shadows:
Art thou for Absalom?

Had.
Ay.

Fifth Crowd.
Then show thyself.

Had.
I'm stationed by the King.

Crowd.
Molest him not;
He says he 's of our party.

Fifth Crowd.
Let him shout. (Approaches Hadad.)

Uplift thy voice. Wast thou born dumb?

Crowd.
Look! look!
What throng is that by David's Tower?

Second Crowd.
Hurrah! (Rushes up toward Zion: all follow.)


Had.
(resuming his station on the bridge.)
What nightmare sits on them! They might have groped
The Red Sea caves, the womb of Caucasus,
The den of Hiddekel—Ha! Maugrabin!
Maugrabin looks from behind an angle of the neighbouring wall, and enters.
Hast found her?—Speak!—

Maug.
No track of her.

Had.
Out, Incubus! Where hast thou idled?

Maug.
By Trismegistus! in this half short hour
I 've borne my clay so spitefully about,
That eyes which saw me doubted if they saw
Substance or shadow. Every den of mischief,
Cavern of booty,—every partlet roost,
Ha! ha! ha! compassed by these holy walls—
I 've peeped into, and sworn by Samaël
Hot night-caps if they touch a plume of her.
No fear:—they know the Fowler!

Had.
(after a moment's thought)
Follow.

(Exit hastily.)
Maug.
Whew!
Eloim gabbathi, Asmody!

(Exit after.)

SCENE V.

The court of the Tabernacle on Mount Zion, lighted by a fire upon the altar of burnt-offerings: the interior of the sanctum partially visible through the smoke of the incense burning there: Zadok and Abiathar standing by the altar.
Abi.
The night frowns darkly, and may burst in storm
Before our sons o'ertake the King. How, then,
Cross ruffled Jordan with the helpless household?

Zad.
Look not to me for cheering. Am not I
Dark as thyself?

Abi.
But thou didst charge the youths
So straitly to pass o'er.

Zad.
So Hushai bade.

Enter Tamar, attended by two ancient Jews.
Tam.
O, holy Priests! O, blessed Tabernacle!
Zadok,—Abiathar,—will ye protect me?

Zad.
(supporting her.)
Protect thee, Princess!—thou art with sure friends.
Whence comest thou?

Tam.
I know not—O! I know not.

Jew.
We rescued her from villains.

Zad.
Merciful!
What measure hath this dreadful day of wrath!

Jew.
We met her in a dark and lonely place,
West of Damascus' gate, dragged by two ruffians,
Her mouth close bound. Perceiving us approach,
They snatched the caul and circlet from her head,
Tore from her arms and neck the costly gems,
And plunged into the darkness.

Zad.
Blest be He
Whose mercy guided you!—How cam'st thou thus
Exposed?—Know ye? (to the Jews.)


Jew.
Hearing the Ark returned,
She bent her steps this way, to seek of you
Intelligence and comfort. In the dusk
And crowded streets, losing her sole attendant,
And borne amidst the tumult, she was seized
By those same wretches, her pretended guides.

Zad.
Ye 've saved the Princess Tamar. Let me know
Your worthy names.

Jew.
Barak and Mahlon, kinsmen,
Of Omri's house.

Zad.
The deed shall be rewarded,
If righteousness return. But leave the maid,—
We watch before the altar,—safer here,
In presence of the Lord, than with an host.

Tam.
Yes, leave me, leave me, friends.

Jew.
Farewell! may prayers
And sacrifice avert the threatened judgments.

(Exeunt Jews.)
Tam.
O, tell me, where is David?—I beheld him
Barefoot and weeping—Or was that a dream?—
Yourselves—the Levites—weeping round the Ark?

Zad.
Ah! that it were a dream!

Tam.
What hath befallen us?—
O, answer, ere I grow quite wild.

Zad.
David is driven forth.

Tam.
Where? where?

Abi.
We know not.

Zad.
Nor where, nor how: it fell upon our heads
Like sudden thunder.

Tam.
Were I but with him!—
Ye know not where he went?—O, doth he live?—
Have they not murdered him?—
(The Priests whisper together.)
—Enough! he is not!—

Zad.
Hearken, Princess,
For we may trust thee. David lives. He fled
Toward Jordan, promising to wait for tidings
In a concerted place—

Tam.
But will he scape?

Zad.
If he pass o'er to-night; and both our sons
Are sped to warn him.

Tam.
Did ye urge?—implore him?

Abi.
We counselled him, and he is wise of heart.

Zad.
Calm your perturbed spirits now: repose
Upon the Lord. His promises sustain
Our fainting hopes: His sacred presence dwells
Still in the Sanctuary, and forbids
Despair. Yes, when the Ark resumed its place,
The Glory settled 'twixt the Cherubim
With undiminished lustre.

Tam.
Then, there's hope—
But O!—my guilty father!— (Weeps bitterly.)


Zad.
Despair not: join with us in supplications.

Tam.
Why did they spare me! O, that I had died
When death was near!

Zad.
Disparage not thy rescuer;
Jehovah hears thee.—Kneel for his offences,
For Israel's, whose portentous sins may tempt
A retribution terrible and final.
Enter the Sanctuary, and uplift
Thy sorrowing heart, more prevalent than incense.

(They lead her into the Tabernacle.)

SCENE VI.

Without the vail of the court: Hadad attended by several of Absalom's guard: Maugrabin, at a little distance in the gloom, watching them.
Had.
I saw her there: she entered with the Priests.
Go in, and say the King commands her presence.
(The Guards pass into the court of the Tabernacle: Hadad remains, intently looking through the vail.)
Lo! lo!—the bloody shrine of sacrifice,—
The Cherub-tissued curtains,—the seven branches,
Revealing through the censer's smothering fume
The dim magnificence!—Each implement
As he prescribed.—These must be symbols, types
Of things hereafter.

Maug.
(muttering to himself.)
Tempt him, if thou wilt—
Pry in his secrets till devouring fire
Break out upon thee—Yea, within the snuff
Of that detested incense! How the wreaths
Begin to curl about him!—I'll not risk
Annihilation.

(Exit.)
Had.
Wherefore should I tremble?—
Mortals have gazed unblinded,—Moses saw
The lightning of his glory pass.—But I—
How could I front the terrible array,
If yonder vail should part?—One flash might end me!—
What holds them parleying? This abhorred smoke
Is worse than Sodom,—every breath I draw
Seems mortal agony.—Leave her I will not—
Re-enter Guards, with Tamar.
Mean ye to stay eternity?

First Guard.
We stay not.

Had.
Peace!

Second Guard.
(aside to his comrade.)
Look how convulsed and pale he is;
And see, his breast is bloody.

Had.
(fiercely.)
Get behind me.

(Throws his mantle across his breast, and conducts Tamar out, followed by the rest: she neither speaks, nor regards him.)

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Mahanaim, near the principal gate of the city. The People collected: supplies of all kinds entering. King David standing with Joab, Benaiah, and other Captains upon the wall, by the ascent of the gate.
First Citizen.
But will the battle be to-day?

Second Cit.
You see,
The Captains are arrayed in proof; the bands
In readiness, awaiting but the King.

First Cit.
Where lies the foe?

Second Cit.
Hard by the wood of Ephraim.

The Wood of Ephraim was near the city of Mahanaim in the country of Gilead, in the tribe of Gad. It received this appellation from a slaughter of the Ephraimites by Jephtha, which happened there.

Enter an Old Man.
Old Man.
Direct mine eyes—where is he? which is he?

Third Cit.
Whom seek'st thou?

Old Man.
The Anointed,—the Sweet Singer.

Third Cit.
Behold him yonder, on the wall,
'Midst the Gibborim.—Seest thou not?—there, father,
Him in the robe.

Old Man.
Is that the King?—O, heavens!

First Cit.
Why dost thou weep?

Old Man.
How matted all his beard!—
Ah! how neglected!—how his reverend locks
Are scattered!—Brothers, is it,—is it he?

Second Cit.
He hath not trimmed his beard, nor changed his raiment,
Nor slept, since he forsook Jerusalem.

Old Man.
Are those the Captains?—What helmed chief is that,
Whose face is as the ravening eagle's beak?

Second Cit.
'T is Joab.

Old Man.
Blest be Joab! hearts of flint,
And hands of steel, are needful now.

Second Cit.
See, see!

(King David and the Captains descend into the gate: the People press nearer.)
K. Dav.
Bring forth my harness.—Joab and Abishai,
Lead ye the vanguard by the southern gate,
And wait me in the plain.—My spear and harness!

People.
(many voices.)
O, go not forth, my lord,—O, go not!—Go not!

Joab.
If I might speak?

K. Dav.
Say on.

Joab.
Thou know'st the time
Is perilous, and we can jeopard nothing.
Behold, my lord,—this city 's strong for siege,
High-towered, and watered, plentiful in corn
Poured in by Gilead, provender, and kine.
Let us thy servants strike the battle now,
And if we fail, my lord shall succour us
From out the city, or receive us here
Where we can baffle them. But if my lord
The King go forth and meet mischance to-day,
What hope is left us?

People.
(crying tumultuously.)
No, no, no!—The King
Shall not go forth.—No matter if we perish;—
Ten thousand of us, to the King, is nought;—
They care not for us.—If the King be slain,
Israel is lost.—My lord shall not go forth—

Joab.
You hear the People.

Ben.
All thy servants pray.

K. Dav.
Well, what ye think is best, be done.

Joab.
(unsheathing his sword.)
Advance
The banner.

K. Dav.
Hear me, Joab,—hear, Abishai,—
Ye sons of Zeruiah, mark my charge
In presence of the People!—For my sake,
Deal gently with him,—even Absalom,—
Touch not his life.—What! is he not my blood?

Joab.
God save the King!—Abishai pass thou south;
I issue by this portal.

K. Dav.
Benaiah!

Ben.
My lord.

(They retire from the hearing of the People.)
K. Dav.
(after a moment's pause.)
Thou hast a son?

Ben.
Two valiant sons, my lord.

K. Dav.
Thou know'st—know'st what it were—
O, think on this—If he be taken,—shield him
From their wild fury.—Every heart is steeled,
And whetted to a murderous edge.—Benaiah,
I would yield crown and life, ere see my son
Hurried to his award.—Dire, dire for him
Is this arbitrament—

Ben.
Wet not your cheeks,
My gracious lord; it doth unman my heart,
Which I would wear, to-day, like my habergeon.

K. Dav.
Then swear to me.

Ben.
I swear.

K. Dav.
Enough, enough.

(The King resumes his station in the gate: the squadrons pass out before him.)

SCENE II.

The tent of Absalom: Absalom, armed except his helmet, and Hadad.
Ab.
Methought I stood again, at dead of night,
In that rich sepulchre, viewing, alone,
The wonders of the place. My wandering eyes
Resting upon the costly sarcophage
Reared in the midst, I saw therein a form
Like David; not as he appears,—but young,
And ruddy. In his lovely-tinctured cheek
The vermil blood looked pure and fresh as life
In gentle slumber. On his blooming brow
Was bound the diadem. But, while I gazed,
The phantasm vanished, and my father lay there,
As he is now, his head and beard in silver,
Sealed with the pale, fixed impress of the tomb.
I knelt and wept. But when I thought to kiss
My tears from off his reverend cheek, a voice
Cried, “Impious! hold!”—and suddenly there stood
A dreadful and refulgent form before me,
Bearing the Tables of the Law.

Had.
Rare phantoms!

Ab.
It spake not, moved not, but still sternly pointed
To one command, which shone so fiercely bright
It seared mine eyeballs. Presently, I seemed
Transported to the desolate, wild shore
Of Asphaltites, night, and storm, and fire
Astounding me with horror. All alone
I wandered; but where'er I turned my eyes,
On the bleak rocks, or pitchy clouds, or closed them,
Flamed that command.

Had.
How o'erwrought fancy coins!

Ab.
Then suddenly I sunk down, down, methought,
Ten thousand thousand cubits to a wide
And travelled way, walled to the firmament
On either side, and filled with hurrying nations;
Hurrying they seemed, or hurried by some spell,
Toward a portentous adamantine gate
Towering before us to the empyrean.
Beside it Abraham sat, in reverend years
And gracious majesty, snatching his Seed
From its devouring jaws. When I approached,
He groaned forth, “Parricide!”—and stretched no aid—
To me, alone, of all his children. Then,
What flames, what howling, fiery billows caught me,
Like the red ocean of consuming cities,
And shapes most horrid; all, methought, in crowns
Scorching as molten brass, and every eye
Bloodshot with agony, yet none had power
To tear them off. With frantic yells of joy,
They crowned me too, and, with the pang, I woke.

Had.
'T was time, indeed. But this is empty nothing,
And should not shake a constant mind.

Ab.
Not shake
From its determined purpose; but may move
Affection, memory, with images
Of things, loved, mourned, or feared. That heart, methinks,
Were of strange mould which kept no cherished print
Of earlier, happier times, when life was fresh,
And love and innocence made holy-day
Within the bosom, destined soon to know
The jar of sterner inmates; or, that owned
No transient sadness, when a dream, or glimpse
Of fancy, touched past joys.

Had.
I held your soul
Fixed with a gaze too steadfast on the sun
Of glory, e'er to cast such looks behind.

Ab.
And, Hadad, I had thought it strange in thee,
But that thou never knew'st a parent's love,
To hold so lightly what has cost me more
To quell, than all I can confront in arms.
Were I unmoved by such exhaustless bounty,
Heaped, loaded on me, since my earliest thought,
Till traitors poisoned him, I were a Fiend.

Enter an Officer of the Guard.
Off.
My lord, the scouts bring tidings of the foe,
Skirting the left-hand wood.

Ab.
What form of march,
What numbers show they?

Off.
Three squadrons come.—
Joab, Benaiah, and the Cherethites,
(Known by their scarlet plumage,) make the vaward,—
The white scarfs of the Gittites next appear:—
The third was too remote for ken.

Ab.
What numbers?

Off.
Some third, or fourth of ours, my lord.

Ab.
So bold?
Yet that I looked for; well I know their temper.
Saw they—my father?

Off.
No, my lord,
No port that did resemble him.

Ab.
'T is well:
Command my chariot to the tent: go, bid
The Captain be at his pavillion straightway.
(Exit Officer.)
This stern defiance arms my soul again.
So David front me not, these carrion birds,
So fond to gorge, and baited to the carnage,
Shall taste their fill, to-day, by Astaroth!
Now for my daughter;—Tamar! ho!
(Partly withdrawing the inner curtain of the tent.)
Enter Tamar.
—My child,
Since thou wouldst follow, I have ordered thus.—
The battle being near—

Tam.
O! say not so—

Ab.
Peace! hear me.

Tam.
Father! father! on my knees
I do conjure thee—

Ab.
(sternly.)
Tamar!

Tam.
By the love
You bear me! by my grandsire's age! by all
Heaven's fearful threatenings—

Ab.
Hush! no more of this!
Know'st thou thy father?—Name it not again,
But hear me. Twelve brave horsemen of the guard
Will be your escort, with our trusty Kinsman.
Two dromedaries of the fleetest, girt
For thee and Hadad, if the day go hard,
Will bear ye from the danger.—Mark me, Prince;
Keep well aloof; come not too near the turmoil;
Move with the conflict; make the wood your skreen.
If we speed well, I'll meet ye here; if not,
Stint not your riding, heed not food nor rest
Till Talmai's palace shelter her.—Beware!
Nor swerve a tittle!—And I charge thee, Hadad,
Be not o'er curious to inspect the strife;
Thou canst not aid it; and the trust thou hast
Is more to me than victory.

Had.
My lord,
I yield to strong necessity, or else
Nothing should sever me from thee to-day.

Ab.
We need thee not.—Farewell, my daughter. (Kisses her.)
Go;
Make ready for the saddle.—Ride with me
Along the files, then, Hadad to thy charge.

(Tamar receives her father's salute weeping, and retires. Absalom and Hadad go out together.)

SCENE III.

The forest of Ephraim: the tents of a company of Ishmaelites: women seen under the trees: Adah singing by a tent door.
Ad.
Ha! Kedar, wherefore in such haste?

Enter a Young Ishmaelite.
Y. Ish.
O, Adah!
The plain is full of warriors: two great hosts
Are rushing to the battle.

Ad.
Heavens! to battle!

Enter Sarah, from the tent.
Sar.
What 's that?

Y. Ish.
Sarah, two armies are in conflict;
Covering the plain with horses, arms, and ensigns.
Why, heard ye not the trumpets?

Women.
(collecting about them.)
No—No—No.

Sar.
But where?

Y. Ish.
West of the wood. While at the spring
Filling our water-skins, we heard a blast,
And trampling, hollow sounds, that shook the earth,
And, pushing to the forest edge, we saw
Squadrons approaching 'gainst a mighty host
Camped in the plain, a countless multitude.
O, Adah, such a glorious sight! shields flashed,
Spears shook, and arrows flew!

Sar.
But who are they?

Y. Ish.
We know not; but Abimilech declared
The battle promised blood. He says the spoil
Will more enrich us than our spices, more
Than thrice our annual journey into Gilead.
Dumah is with the camels; all the rest
Are watching to despoil the slain. I came,
Lest ye should fear mischance.

Ad.
Alas! alas!

Y. Ish.
O, could you see how dazzling bright their arms,
How square and firm they move, flashing the sun
Back from the brazen ridges,—and behold
The warrior in the car majestic rule
His bounding steeds, white as the noonday cloud!

Enter Tamar, pale, and leaning upon Hadad, followed by two of the Guard.
Had.
We crave your hospitality, good people;
This lady 's faint, and cannot keep the saddle.
Grant her the shelter of your tent awhile.

Sar.
Enter in peace.

Ad.
Sweet lady, let me aid thee.

(Adah conducts Tamar into the tent.)
Sar.
Belike she 's frighted? Heard ye of the battle?

Had.
We have.

Sar.
Know ye what hosts they be?

Had.
'T is Israel.

Sar.
Whom strive they with, my lord?

Had.
Their ancient, cruel,
Inveterate, and indomitable foe,
Each other.

Sar.
Holy God!

Had.
(to the Guard.)
Keep all together. Are your comrades near?

Guard.
Stationed behind the tents, my lord.

Had.
'T is well:
Be ready to mount instantly; and hark,
I have a word for all of ye.

(Hadad and Guard disappear behind the tents.)
Sar.
Isaac with Isaac hosts, and Ishmael reaps
The bloody spoil! Thus Heaven's decrees—

Enter Adah.
Ad.
O, mother!
Never did I behold such beauty! sure,
She must be some born Princess, all her vest
Is twined with gold, and every loop
Is fastened with a gem. But O! such grief,
Such sighs, it wrings my heart!

Women.
Who can she be?

Ad.
Her girdle, sandals, bracelets, glistering hood
Of checklaton, are wondrous; and a cord
Of rarest rubies twice engirds her neck,
And falls betwixt her bosom white as wool.
But O, her lovely face was never peered.
She looks, methinks, as Pharaoh's daughter did,
When we beheld her pleasuring on the Nile.

Sar.
Here comes the stranger:—noble too.

Ad.
Question him, mother dear:—ask who they are,
And what hath chanced to them; 't is, sure, some sad,
Sad accident.

Enter Hadad.
Sar.
How can we serve my lord,
Or yon fair lady?

Had.
Let us rest a space.

Sar.
Yea, but she droops, my lord. I would we might
Administer: her tears and beauty touch
My daughter nearly.

Ad.
Ah! might not some comfort—

Had.
Nothing: intrude not on her.

Sar.
If we knew
Her ailment, doubt not we could balm it, Sir:
Adah has soothed a wilder mood, believe me.

Had.
Her friends are in the battle. Trouble not
Anxiety ye cannot tranquillize.

Sar.
Her friends may conquer: why doth she despair?

Had.
They may, they must. But leave her, dame.

Y. Ish.
Here 's Dumah.

Enter an Ishmaelite.
Sar.
What of the battle, Dumah? heard ye aught?

Ish.
I durst not leave the camels long; but ere
I came, I ran and looked, just looked.

Had.
What saw'st thou?

Ish.
Host mixed with host confused,
The flash and shock of arms, shouts, groans, and peals
Of shrilling trumpets, and a dreadful car
Hurled by two steeds fiercer than unicorns—

Had.
Who yielded?

Ish.
None; but many fell.

Had.
You know not—Would I could a glance there!—
Tamar appears at the door of the tent.
Ha! what, my love?

Tam.
What tidings?

Had.
Nothing decisive. Thou shalt hear the first.
Go in, sweet:—calm your agitated spirits.

Tam.
Ah! Hadad, thou mightst have prevented this.

Had.
Nay, have I not assured thee how I strove,
Entreated, kneeled to shake the Prince's purpose?—
His will is moveless as the world's fixed centre.

Tam.
Had I but known it!—Now, it matters not
Who wins or loses.

Had.
Could I play the traitor?
Betray his secrets?—That had sundered us
For ever, blasted all my hopes in thee.—
Go in, love; thou shalt know whate'er betides.
(Tamar retires.)
How long is it, since you beheld the field—
Enter two Ishmaelites with spoils.
But here 's of fresher die—Rings, daggers, girdles,—
(Examining the booty.)
Or friends', or foes',—they speak a common tongue.—
Bring them not near this tent.—How goes the field?

First Ish.
The storm drives south.

Had.
Ha! south?

Second Ish.
We gathered these
Where the first blows were struck.

Had.
Saw ye a chariot?

First Ish.
The conflict there, is like the desert whirlwind,—
Darts, arrow-flights, and clashing, eager spears,
And desperate combatants are huddled there.—
The dust-wreaths fly.—The ramping chargers foam
Like yesty waters,—whizzing javelins glance
From their broad frontlets and brass poitrels, like
Hail from a rock. Their master's buckler takes
A tempest.

Had.
What! the battle pushes south?

First Ish.
We won
These spoils where it first closed, and now it rages
Further toward Succoth, all between thick strown
With carcasses. All 's broken and confused.
But, scattered through the field, you may espy,
Far in the hostile ranks, the scarlet crests
Of some who know their weapons well, and clear
A bloody space around them.—Tema! ha!
Enter third Ishmaelite, with booty.
How goes the strife?

Third Ish.
We left it at the direst.

First Ish.
How fares the car?

Third Ish.
The horses plunge and madden,
But cannot stir the wheels, fast wedged by dead
And living. Round them fights a furious ring,
Like reckless lions. All their silver manes,
And arched necks, when they rear, show bloody red.

Fourth Ish.
(entering while the last speaks.)
They 're prostrate,—dead, I think,—I saw them fall.

Had.
What of their lord?

Fourth Ish.
O'er his fallen steeds he combats:
His sword sweeps circles that the hardiest shun.

Had.
He cannot 'scape, then?—Can he 'scape?

Fourth Ish.
For thrice
The car, I would not stand in it.

Third Ish.
'T is o'er ere this: we came about, for fear
Of skirmishers that struggled in the wood.

Had.
(walking aside.)
'T is odds he 's slain,—I know the cruel pack
That bay him!—So—I'll rid me of these fellows;—
Alone with her, I may persuade,—If not,
I have her, and can curb her.—All 's fulfilled!—
And all shall be fulfilled! No more I climb
Moriah till the frustrate covenant
Leave her a salt-sown rock!—What if our foe
Recover?—Is 't my fault?—Have I not thrust
The parricidal brand into his bosom?—
Come, what may come,—I'll trust my dear-bought guerdon
To no hereafter.

Fourth Ish.
Lo!—the Captain.—Lo!
Here comes Abimilech.

Enter Abimilech, and several Ishmaelites, with a quantity of rich spoil.
Abim.
(perceiving Hadad.)
Whom have we here?

Third Ish.
We found him when we came,
Inquiring of the battle.

Ad.
(running to Abimilech.)
Welcome, father.

Abim.
What stranger 's that?

Ad.
O, father, he hath brought
A lady brave and beauteous as a Princess.

Had.
(saluting Abimilech.)
Peace.

Abim.
Peace.

Had.
I prithee, Chief,
How fortunes, now, the field?

Abim.
(after a glance of scrutiny.)
The eagles smell it.

Had.
But is the battle lost?

Abim.
Or lost, or won,
'T is stricken; and the wreck of hosts is strown
As after whirlwinds.

Had.
Heard ye of the Chief
Who fought from out a chariot with white steeds?

Abim.
He 's finished.

Had.
Ha! how know'st thou that?

Abim.
I saw him lifeless.

Had.
Art thou sure?

Abim.
If to be bored with three tough darts be sure.

Had.
Beseech ye, come this way: some friends are near,
To whom the news were murderous.—Then he 'scaped not?

Abim.
He fled upon a mule, and disappeared,
And had escaped, I thought, though hotly followed,
Taking the wood when met upon the plain.
But, as I crossed the forest far within,
A trumpet roused me. Hearing earnest voices,
I made that way, through a close brake, to spy
The danger. Near the thicket's verge, I saw
A concourse round an oak. Intent they seemed
On some great spectacle. Opening anon,
I saw him, bleeding, and transpierced with darts,
Borne past me on their shields.

Had.
What was his vesture?

Abim.
Fragments of purple hung about his shoulders.

Had.
His arms? his helm?

Abim.
Unhelmed his head, and bare;
His breastplate sparkled, studded, and engrailed
With flowers of gold, pure burnish of Damascus.

Had.
His stature—

Abim.
Palm-like tall, of noblest aspect;
With ample locks that trailed upon the ground.

Had.
Let Hades rise to meet him reverently,
For not a Kingly Phantom there sustained
A heart more regal!

Abim.
Yea; though he miscarried,
He well deserves a valiant memory,
And fought it like a son of David.

Had.
Dead!—
We must begone. Prithee, speak not of this
Till we 're away.—First I'll despatch yon horsemen.

(Aside.)
Abim.
(approaching the Ishmaelites.)
Come, bustle, bustle, mates:—day wastes,—and, with
The moon, we must be making for the Desert.

Had.
(behind the tents.)
Mount, Sirs,—your master needs ye,—push amain,—
Spur,—strike into the field the shortest way;—
Where'er ye see him grapple to his side.—
I'll guard the Princess.— (Returning.)
So; we'll further pierce
The forest, that they trace us not. At worst,
Our dromedaries can, with ease, outstrip them.
(Approaching Sarah's tent.)
Princess, we must begone.

Tam.
(appearing.)
Ha!—What?

Had.
But this;—
Your father has retreated.

Tam.
Is he safe?—
Alive?—unhurt?—

Had.
So they who saw, report.

Tam.
Thanks, gracious Heaven!

Had.
Come, sweet,
We must obey him, now.—The conflict 's o'er;—
Take comfort. Bid we these good friends farewell.

Tam.
Adieu, kind-hearted Adah! Were my fate
Less cruel, we would not part so. Keep this
For Tamar's sake. (Gives her a ring.)


Ad.
Farewell! farewell!—The stars
Prove kinder to you.

Sar.
Go in peace.

Tam.
Farewell to all!

(The Ishmaelites follow Tamar and Hadad to the rear of the encampment.)

SCENE IV.

A sequestered place in the wood, surrounded with thick, dark trees: a fountain, near a cave. Enter Hadad and Tamar.
Tam.
But why dismount here?—night approaches, Hadad:—
See, the slant sunbeams gild but the tall tree-tops,
And evening sables all below. The wood
Grows drear and dismal.

Had.
We must await the Guard.—Come, sit with me
Beside this mossy fountain: all is still here:—
List the sweet birds nestling among the boughs;
All else soft silence: tumult comes not here.
Sit by this crystal spring awhile.

Tam.
No, no,
I will not sit; we must not linger here.
My father bade us haste: we disobey,
And risk his anger.—Keep your hands from me.

Had.
But whither shall we fly?

Tam.
Where he commanded.

Had.
To vassal Geshur!—Who can there protect us?
Or in Damascus' tributary walls?—
Hear me, sweet Princess, bright star of my being,
Fly, fly with me beyond this wretched scene
Of civil strife, and never-ending discord,
To realms of quietness, where we may dwell
In lasting peace.

Tam.
What mean'st thou?

Had.
Look on Israel
Deluged in blood,—the Royal House divided,—
The Tribes in faction,—peace for ever fled!
What harbour here for love? O, fly with me:
I will conduct thee to a brighter sphere.

Tam.
Forsake my country?—father?—Never!

Had.
Then Hadad 's lost, and all our cherished hopes
A faithless dream.

Tam.
These sad clouds may disperse.

Had.
Thou know'st not—Ah!—I would have spared that pang—

Tam.
Ha!

Had.
Hadad can never tread these bounds again,
Deemed (O, how falsely!) treason's foul abettor,
Since he is gone who only could attest
His spotless innocence.

Tam.
(in alarm.)
What mean'st thou?

Had.
Later witnesses report—
Alas!—

Tam.
My father?—Gracious Heaven!—
Mean'st thou my father?—

Had.
Dearest Tamar,—Israel's Hope—
Sleeps with the valiant of the years of old.
(Tamar, with a convulsed cry, bursts into tears: Hadad seems to weep.)
The bond is rent that knit thee to thy country.
Thy father's murderers triumph. Turn not there,
To see their mockery. Let us retire,
And, piously, on some far, peaceful shore,
With mingled tears embalm his memory.

Tam.
(clasping her hands.)
Am I an orphan?

Had.
Nay, much-loved Princess, not while this
Fond heart—

Tam.
Misguided father!—Hadst thou but listened—
Hadst thou believed—

Had.
But now, what choice is left?
What refuge hast thou but thy faithful Hadad?

Tam.
One—stricken—hoary head remains.

Had.
The slayer of thy parent!—Wouldst thou go
Where obloquy and shame and curses load him?
Hear him called rebel?

Tam.
All is expiated now.

Had.
Tamar,—wilt thou forsake me.

Tam.
I must go to David.

Had.
(aside.)
Cursed thought!—
Think of your lot,—neglect, reproach, and scorn,
For who will wed a traitor's offspring? All
The proud will slight thee, as a blasted thing.

Tam.
O, wherefore this to me?—
Conduct me hence—Nay, instantly.

Had.
(in an altered tone.)
Hold! hold!
For thou must hear.—If deaf to love, thou 'rt not
To fearful ecstasy.
(Tamar startled:—he proceeds, but agitated and irresolute.)
—Confide in me—
I can transport thee—O, to a paradise,
To which this Canaan is a darksome span;—
Beings shall welcome—serve thee—lovely as Angels;—
The Elemental Powers shall stoop;—the Sea
Disclose her wonders, and receive thy feet
Into her sapphire chambers;—orbed clouds
Shall chariot thee from zone to zone, while earth,
A dwindled islet, floats beneath thee;—every
Season and clime shall blend for thee the garland.—
The abyss of Time shall cast its secrets,—ere
The Flood marred primal nature,—ere this Orb
Stood in her station! Thou shalt know the stars,
The houses of Eternity, their names,
Their courses, destiny,—all marvels high.

Tam.
Talk not so madly.

Had.
(vehemently.)
Speak—answer—
Wilt thou be mine, if mistress of them all?

Tam.
Thy mien appals me;—I know not what I fear;—
Thou wouldst not wrong me,—reft, and fatherless,—
Confided to thee as a sacred trust—

Had.
(haughtily.)
My power
Is questioned. Whom dost thou imagine me?

Tam.
Indeed, surpassed by nothing human.

Had.
Bah!

Tam.
O, Hadad, Hadad, what unhallowed thought
So ruffles and transforms thee?

Had.
Still, still,
Thou call'st me Hadad,—boy, worm, heritor
Of a poor, vanquished, tributary King!—
Then know me.

Tam.
Seraphs hover round me!

Had.
Woman!— (Struggling, as with conflicting emotions.)

What thou so dotest on—this form—was Hadad's—
But I—the Spirit—I, who speak through these
Clay lips, and glimmer through these eyes,—
Have challenged fellowship, equality,
With Deathless Ones,—prescient Intelligences,—
Who scorn Man and his molehill, and esteem
The outgoing of the morning, yesterday!—
I, who commune with thee, have dared, proved, suffered,
In life—in death—and in that state whose bale
Is death's first issue! I could freeze thy blood
With mysteries too terrible—of Hades!—
Not there immured, for by my art I 'scaped
Those confines, and with Beings dwelt of bright
Unbodied essence.—Canst thou now conceive
The love that could persuade me to these fetters?—
Abandoning my power—I, who could touch
The firmament, and plunge to darkest Sheol,
Bask in the sun's orb, fathom the green sea,
Even while I speak it—here to root and grow
In earth again, a mortal, abject thing,
To win and to enjoy thy love.

Tam.
(in a low voice of supplication.)
Heaven! Heaven!
Forsake me not!

Had.
First, in the city's crowded gate I saw thee,
The memorable day thou camest from Geshur,
A vermil blossom by thy father's side,
Hailing Jerusalem with smiles and tears.
Then, then I loved thee,—tender as thou wert;—
I hung invisibly about thy steps—
About thy bed,—I glided in thy dreams,—
Filled them with sweet, voluptuous forms and phantoms,
And watched thy glowing cheek and heaving bosom,
While my bright visions stirred thy fancy. Happy
Till that cursed Syrian, fresher than Adonis,
Became thy inmate. No seducing dream,
Illusion, art of mine, could reach thee more.
Then, first, I knew agonies, scorpions, fire!—
But mark,—I harmed him not,—ensnared him not,
Unlocked life's secret by no subtle spell.
But mourning in a mountain solitude,
Neighbouring Jerusalem, my luckless love
And lowering destiny, your father's train
Came forth to hunt. The Syrian from the rest
Severing in keen pursuit, fell in with Outlaws
Who followed, and with bloody daggers slew him,
Even by the fountain where I mused unseen.

Tam.
(clasping her forehead.)—
O, grace!—O, pity!—

Had.
Thou know'st the time—remember'st well—'t was night,
Ere he returned,—ere I returned,—for I,
From that day forth, have worn these lineaments.

Tam.
Confusion!—

Had.
While his quivering limbs
Pressed the green sod, while pitying I surveyed
His matchless beauty, nobly stern in death,
And thought how dear those features were to thee,
I dared the penalty;—for thy sake dared
Death, prison-house, and penal consequence,
Denounced on the offence:—I linked myself
To Hadad's form, and life's infirmities,
My recompense, my only recompense,
Thy love.

Tam.
Sorcerer! Fiend!—'t is falsehood all—
Thou slew'st him.

Had.
Ha! are there not other means
To free the spirit?—Had I marred him thus?

(Draws aside his vesture, and displays two bleeding stabs upon his breast.)
Tam.
(covering her face.)
O! Powers of Heaven!

Had.
Immedicable wounds, that thrill, and throb
Hourly as with the mortal steel, and gush
Fresh blood, when stronger passions shake my frame.
No art can heal them, and no balm assuage.—
O, if this sight constrain the tear of pity,
How wouldst thou live to listen the dire torments,
Must loose me from this flesh,—too deep to tell,—
To which your death by poison, steel, or rack,
Is a sweet noontide slumber.

Tam.
Wretched being!

Had.
Dost thou not pity me?

Tam.
Alas! alas!
If 't be not guilt,—for thou art capable
Of misery past thought.

Had.
I love thee:—'t is my only joy:—
I 've paid to win thy love a sumless price:—
Canst thou deny it me? (Approaching her.)


Tam.
Avoid me—leave me!—
I sin, in talking with thee.—Pardon, Heaven!
I know not what I do.

Had.
Weep not,
Nor fear, sweet Princess: I would make thee happy,
Happier than mortal. Only bid me sprinkle
Three crystal drops of this pure spring upon thee,
And thou shalt live, unfading, tracts of years,
And bloom, when all who stand to-day on earth,
Are shapeless dust. (Scoops water from the fountain.)


Tam.
(recoiling.)
Avaunt!—approach me not!—
Jehovah shelter me!—O, righteous Prophet!
Had I obeyed thee—guilty and undone!

Had.
Why call'st thou on that name so oft, nor know'st
Thyself abandoned? Hopest thou to escape
His wrath, who visits on the children's head
The father's guilt? Thy sire has angered him,
And thou must suffer.—Take the good I offer:
Thou hazardest no evil, and securest
Almost immortal bliss.—Wilt thou?

Tam.
No!—No!—No!

Had.
Strange obduracy! Thou art mine, thou seest:—
Resigned to me in this vast wilderness,—
Night, solitude, and silence all around,—
With none to friend or help thee;—yet thou turnest
From happiness beyond the lot of mortal,
Beauty unfading, knowledge like the Angels',
Glory, and sovereignty, and length of days—
Thine eye relents,—thus, let me clasp a goddess!

Tam.
(springing backward.)
Heart, hold thou firm! God look on me,
For I am sore beset!—If 't is my crime
Not to have abhorred thee utterly, and sealed
My ears like adamant, nor ventured, once,
Exchange a thought,—'t was difficult, alas!
Seeing that form, and listening to a tongue
Employed so oft in noblest eloquence,
To realize thee foul, and reprobate,—
Abandoned,—hating God,—cruelly bent
To drag a frail, bereaved, unhappy creature,
Down to thy own dark mansion-house of pain.
But now I know thee, I abjure thee,—hate thee,
More than unwittingly I loved. To God
I cleave,—on God I call—

Had.
(with demoniac violence.)
No more,—we'll argue after.—Thou, at least,
Shalt never bear the Incarnate Foe we fear.

Tam.
Father!—Most High!—By every name!—O, snatch me!
Flame round me!—O! for Jacob's—David's sake!—

(He drags her shrieking into the cavern; at the same moment a trumpet and voices heard in the wood.)
First Voice.
This way, this way.

Second Voice.
There stand their dromedaries.

Third Voice.
It issues from the cave.

Enter Benaiah hastily, followed by a party of Cherethites.
Ben.
I know his beast—
Stand from the gorge!—Give light and weapon room!
Some stout hearts follow me!

(Enters the cavern, sword in hand, followed by several of the band: the rest gather round.)
First Cher.
Hark! hark!—What dire, unnatural yell was that? (They listen.)

Some mortal conflict rages.—Heavenly Powers!
What curses, howling, horrid blasphemy!

Second Cher.
'T is like Gehenna!

Third Cher.
O, venture not—Keep back—
Accursed Spirits consort in these caves,
Who craftily entice men in, and there
Force them to kneel at their ensnaring altars.

Second Cher.
But should we leave our lord in peril?

First Cher.
No,
By Heaven! Let 's in, and stand by him.

(As others are entering, a Cherethite rushes out, pale and terrified.)
Cherethites.
What now?—
What violence is doing?—Speak—Why stares
Your hair?—

Cherethite.
O, go not—'t is too terrible—

Other Cherethites.
What saw ye?—Speak!—

Cherethite.
One like the Cherubim,—
Dreadfully glistering,—winged, and dazzling bright
As lightning;—shooting from his bickering eyeballs
Sparkles like arrows.—All the cave 's a-blaze
With red effulgence!—Foaming on the ground,
A howling, withering, ghast, demoniac shape
Curses, and gnashes, in death's agony.

Third Cher.
The Prophets keep us!

Cherethite.
Nothing kin to earth
E'er looked such serpent rage, or battled so
With death's strong pangs.

(They all start.)
Fourth Cher.
What sound was that?

Second Cher.
It seemed a rush of wind from out the cave.

First Cher.
'T was passing wings.

Third Cher.
I felt it; and methinks
A sudden sweetness fills the air around us.

First Cher.
Ambrosial. It betokens some blest Presence.

Second Cher.
They come, they come.

(Enter two of the band, dragging the body of Hadad from the cavern, which they drop, and recoil from.)
First Cher.
What hideous monster is it?

Second Cher.
Nothing human:
Look how 't is blasted.

Third Cher.
What a hellish glare
Is glazed upon those starting eyeballs!

Second Cher.
Damned.

Enter Benaiah and others from the cavern, bearing Tamar, whom they place upon the turf by the spring.
Ben.
'T is she, indeed, the Princess, but not dead.
The color 's in her cheek, and see, she breathes.

(Sprinkles water in her face.)
Tam.
(opening her eyes aghast.)
No!—No!—No!—

Ben.
Look up, sweet lady:—be not so affrighted:—
We are thy friends,—the servants of the King;—
I am Benaiah,—these are David's soldiers—

Tam.
O, take me!—save me!—

(Sinks back.)
Ben.
Take courage, Princess,—Heaven hath rescued thee—
Behold!—armed friends are round thee,—God is nigh.—
(To his followers.)
Sound the recall,—collect more strength about us;—
And seize a mule, if any browse the glade.—
Gently—Undo her girdle—She'll revive.
(Trumpet sounds: some of the Cherethites disperse through the wood. Benaiah signs to the rest, who gather round him.)
Comrades! yon grisly thing, that lies there seared,
Is Hadad. He could blear our eyes, but not
The great All-seeing. Strictly did I heed
The Prophet's dark suggestions to the King,
Imparted as they wayfared side by side,
The night before we entered Mahanaim;
Oft iterated, as when cruel doubts
Afflict us. But, in the midmost watch last night,
He stood beside my couch,—perplexed, perturbed;—
Visions, he said, all pointing to the Syrian
And this young Princess, vexed and baffled him,
Shifting and indistinct as clouds or smoke,
But all portentous. Some catastrophe
He deemed at hand, thus darkly intimated;
And bade me, in the Holy Name, not spare,
If this day's battle brought him to my steel,
And, haply, I should find him vulnerable.
Either, said he, some Minister of Evil
Has armed that Syrian with unearthly arts,
Or else a Spirit has assumed his likeness.
Strange signs, strange intimations he recounted,
And said a dream had warned him to beware
Of Asmodai, for that seductive Demon
Was plotting in the midst of Israel.