University of Virginia Library

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.