University of Virginia Library

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.)