University of Virginia Library

The heroic soul still struggles against fate,
And, arm'd with self-devotion, finds resolve
For struggle in despair. Prepared for death,
And hopeless for himself, the soul of Saul,
Though counsell'd from the grave of sore defeat,
Still nursed the dream that God would succor yet
The fortunes of his people. They had sinn'd,
But he, their sovereign, led the way to sin,
And shaped their disobedience. On his head
Heaven's vengeance only; and for this he pray'd
With an heroic virtue, at the last,
That honor'd his decline. Weary with grief,
The bitter penalty of a stubborn pride—
No longer cheer'd with promises from Heaven,
The voice of sacred prophets, or the signs
Vouchsafed in dreams; or by the mystic rites
Of Thummim and Urim;—with a sense of peace,
He yielded satisfied to the doom that hung
Suspended o'er his head. Another day,
And he should sleep without the harassing dread
That whisper'd the desertion of his God,
The enemy ever, with a fearful dart,
Above his couch of sleep and weariness,
And a new rival ready for his throne!
Better than this so dread anxiety,
The conflict without hope;—and, though despair
Sat heavy at his heart, it took resolve
From the impending circumstance of ill,
And by his natural courage, moved to pride
At the grim presence of his enemy,
Saul girded him for battle. Israel's tents
He pitch'd beside the fountain of Jezreel;
While the Philistines gather'd their great hosts
To Aphek, and defied him with a shout
That spoke their hearts secure of victory.
But naught did this abate his firm resolve,
Which look'd to battle, though it bring defeat,
As the heroic finish to a term,
That lacks but noble ending—not with hope
Of safety or of triumph. His brave youth
Consider'd, and the songs of ancient days
Remember'd, which had shown his thousands slain,
Demanded the last struggles which should fold
The monarch's robes about the hero's form,
And mantle greatly his great overthrow.
Unmoved he heard the shoutings of the foe,
And mock'd them with his own.
“Let us but raise,”
He said to his brave son, Melchishua,
“The courage of our people to the strife,
And though we perish, we may save the throne
To our successor. We shall fall, I know,
Thou with thy brothers, both; and we shall sleep
This night with Kish, our sire, and the great dead
That have prepared the ever-open way
To all the living. Let this fear us not,
While we invoke, with words of ancient might,
And songs, as of a prophet, the spell'd hearts
Of these, our people, waxing faint to hear
Philistia's insolent clamors. Get thee hence,
And pass among the timorous with proud speech,
As of heroic promise. Jonathan
Already seeks them, and Abinadab,
With voice of fire and martial eloquence:
I too, will follow, teaching with a tongue
That soon shall lack all pleasing—of a will
That not the less resolves on valorous deed,
Because it looks, beneath the frown of Heaven,
Upon the dread, inevitable doom!
Go forth and follow in your brothers' steps,
So that our people, warm'd with proper fire,
May seek the battle with that noble rage
Alone that brings success. If we must fall,
It may be Heaven shall suffer us to fall
Like Gaza's blinded captive, sworn on death—
Our mighty foes crush'd with us—in our fate
Proving Philistia's too!”

The battle join'd;
And Israel quail'd before his enemies!
The monarch saw with anguish, and his soul
Put on the wildest courage of despair,
And braved the thickest dangers of the field,
Still in the face of his worst destinies!
The youth of Saul came back to him—the heart
Of fearless valor and vindictive wrath
That led him, desperate through the opposing hosts,
When first upon his head the sacred oil
Was pour'd by Samuel—and the Amorites,
At Jabesh-Gilead, fell before his ire,
That, from the morning watch till noon-day sun,
Still smote their withering hosts. Again he wrought
As in that day of prime; but not as then,
With God's assuring sanction on his deeds.
His valor raged in vain. In vain he threw
Aside the golden helmet—his white beard
And thin, gray locks, still gleaming through the fight,
Unseemly, with that terrible strength of wrath,
Which mark'd the wingéd passage of his darts.
Again he slew his thousands, and his deeds,
More fortunate then, were never in his prime
More glorious than when now, in his old age,
He smote in vain—and from his lofty brow
Felt the green laurels gone.
“Where?”—as he sped,
Still smiting with a weapon drunk with blood—
“Where's Jonathan, my son?—I see him not!”
And on he pass'd. One answer'd him that knew—
“To him the battle has no farther voice,
Nor enemy's weapon terror!”
But one groan
Broke from the monarch's bosom, as he cried—
“Now see I that the day will soon have end;—
God's will be done in mercy!” On he went,
Crossing his dripping spear with other foes,
And trampling o'er his slain.
“I see no more
The shining azure of Melchishua's shield:—
Who marks him in the fight?”
They answer'd him—
“He who, with still a foeman at his throat,
May stop to single from the up-piled dead
The son of Israel's sovereign!”
“How it works,
That fate which I have vainly sought to cross—
That vengeance I have anger'd! Yet, awhile,
Deeds may be done for Israel. If the foe
Must triumph, they shall sing their choral songs
In bitterness, and with a grief that lives
When triumph is forgotten. Thrice the shaft
Hath stricken me”—and he pluck'd an arrow forth,
That, in that moment, quivering in his side,
Stay'd the heroic speech—“but I am proof
'Gainst hate of human foes. They can but slay,
And I am self-deliver'd to the shaft
This day, as one decreed to sacrifice!—
Who calls me from the host?”
“Oh! sire, your son,
Abinadab, is smitten, even to death,
And cries on thee for succor!”
“Let him cry,
But fight the while—the succor is at hand,
Certain to come ere sunset.”
Thus he sped,
Himself prevailing in the matchless might
Of his one arm, where'er his weapon flew.
Yet still his people quail'd. His sons were slain;
But he, though smarting with repeated wounds,
Still hew'd a fearful passage through the foe;
Then turning, with his weapon as a share,
Plough'd the dense field again. His arm, at last,
Fail'd him—the great drops gather'd on his brow,
Mix'd dust, and blood, and water. All in vain
His desperate deeds of valor. On all sides
His people fled discomfited. The war
Went wholly against him, and the hope was gone
That dream'd how Israel's banner yet should rise
Triumphant, though above the sovereign slain!
The progress of the battle had led up
The heights of Gilboa. Here, as Saul beheld
His scatter'd hosts in flight, and, close behind,
The foe pursuing with inveterate rage,
Of murder edged by madness, he stood up
And rested on his spear.
“Why should I fly?”
To those who counsell'd safety. “I have lived
Too long already, having outlived my sons,
My fortunes, and God's favor. Get ye hence,
For Israel's future, and another sway
More blest by Heaven and man. For me, no more
The pomp of royalty, the pride of spears,
The joy that's born of battle, and the songs
That hail the conqueror on his homeward march
Through the great cities. I behold the sun
For the last time, and with no vain regret
That he shall rouse me from my tent no more,
Rejoicing in a day of deeds begun!
Hither to me, thou last of many friends,
And faithfullest of followers. Take thy sword
And thrust me through!—for the Philistines come;
And they must never, with their barbarous rage,
Degrade this conscious form!”
To him who bore
His armor in the battle, thus he spake,
The wounded king of Israel, as below
He saw his enemies gather. Wounded sore,
By their superior archers, well he knew
That neither in flight, nor in the further struggle,
Lay hope of safety. But the man replied—
“Now God forbid that hand of mine be laid,
With violence on the heaven-anointed head!”

“All fail me at my need,” reproachfully
Exclaim'd the monarch. Then, as came the foe—
“I will not see their triumph!” cried the king;
And turning his own steel against his breast,
Headlong he threw himself upon the shaft,
And perish'd ere they came! Thus, with like deed,
Died he who bore his armor;—silent both,
As the exulting heathen, up the heights,
Rush'd to the bloody spectacle with shouts,
That ceased when they beheld, beneath their feet,
The mightiest prince in Israel. They were dumb,
As stunn'd by their own triumph—which were naught,
But that the God of Israel was in wrath!

Mournfully sweet the dirge on Gilboa's heights,
Sung by the monarch minstrel, on whose brow
The crown of Saul descended, as he saw
The wreck of that dread battle, and bewept
The royal victims. Never elegy
More touching or more beautiful. How wild
The lyrical sweetness from the Arabian caught,
Which pictured Israel's proud nobility
Perishing in pride and valor, on the heights
Their sacrifice makes sacred!
“How,” he sang,
“How are the mighty fallen! Israel's beauty
Slain on high places. Tell it not in Gath,
Lest they, the daughters of Philistia, joy
And triumph o'er God's people—triumph o'er him
Who taught them shame and bitter overthrow!
For thee, Gilboa, let there be no dew
Upon thy summits. Be the rains denied
That crown thy summer fields with offerings;
For on thy heights accurséd the big shield
Of Saul was cast away; by vilest foes
His banner overthrown, and he o'ercome,
As though his mighty head had never been
With heavenly oil anointed. To its sheath
His sword return'd not thirsty. Never, in vain,
He smote the enemies' legions, even at the last,
When God denied the victory to his arm!

“And thou, my brother Jonathan—oh! thou,
Fleet as the roe of the mountain; from whose bow
Never flew fruitless arrow at thy prey,
But in the fat of the mighty, and the blood
Of the warm enemy, made vengeance sure;—
I mourn for thee, my brother, sore distress'd;
For, very pleasant, since I knew thee first,
Hast thou been unto me—thy love to me
Wonderful precious, and surpassing still
The love of woman. Thou, with thy sire,
Hast won the fame of warriors. Thou wast slain,
Like him, on highest places, in the thick
Of fiercest battle—undismay'd, though fate
Refused thee, and thy battle-cry went forth
With the sure knowledge of death against thy hope.

“Lovely and pleasant ever in their lives
Were Saul and Jonathan. Nor in death at last
Are they divided. Kindred in their worth,
Stronger than lions in the battle's rage,
Swifter than eagles in pursuing flight;
Their sweet and sure communion to the close,
Makes them heroic for our histories
So long as fame shall last. Weep for your king,
Daughters of Israel. He it was who first
Ye rescued from the bondage of the foe,
And clad your forms in scarlet; who, with gold,
Deck'd your apparel richly, and first brought
Your hearts to knowledge of still more delights.
How are the mighty fallen!—weapons of war,
How perish'd, and what glorious state o'erthrown?”