University of Virginia Library

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.)