University of Virginia Library

We pay the mournful penalties of guilt
Long after we forget its pleasant sweets,
And sow, in youth, the bitter seeds of pain,
That age shall reap in sorrow. Thus the king,
Heaven's favorite, when his head was gray with years,
For the impetuous passions of his youth
That led him, though repenting still, to sin,
Found in his best beloved, his Absalom—
The dearest to his heart of many sons—
A resolute rebel; seeking with bared arms
And deadliest weapon, after Israel's crown,
Pluck'd from his sire's gray head. From him he stole,
By subtle arts and guilty agencies,
The affections of his people; till, grown strong,
He shook away the webs of policy,
And standing fearless forth, proclaim'd himself
The rightful king in Israel. Through the land
The trumpet voices of sedition rang—
“Absalom reigns in Hebron!” He had snared
His father's nearest counsellors, and had stolen
His way to hearts, forgetful of their faith,
Solemnly sworn to David; while his power
Shook to its centre the great realm which Heaven
Had built up under Saul, and made secure
In hands more worthy and more fortunate.
An hour sufficed—so suddenly it fell—
To spread sedition's tempest o'er the land,
And drive the monarch, unprepared, in flight,
Forth from his royal city. O'er the brook,
Kedron, he sped by night. Through secret paths
He sought strange places. Day by day he went,
While bitter tears, slow coursing down his cheeks,
Declared how bitter was the pang that found
A traitor in a favorite—rebel foe
In the dear pledge of a most faithful love,
The child of his best manhood. Thus he went,
With cover'd head, and feet made bare, in grief,
Up the steep sides of Olivet; while they
Who follow'd, with a rare fidelity,
Took a like form of mourning to their hearts,
And echo'd all his woes. Ere many days,
God heard his prayers, and wrought, by human means,
Confusion to the counsels of the son,
Who, in his desperate thirst for evil sway,
Sought equally his father's life and crown.
Meanwhile, the faithful of the tribes drew nigh,
In succor of the sovereign. Soon his hosts,
Number'd and train'd by Joab, the strong man
And savage warrior, were prepared to plant,
On the high hill-top, in the face of foes,
The Zion banner. Unto Mahanaim
Then David came. Here number'd he his troops;
And when he sent them forth to seek the strife,
He said to his great captains:—
“For my sake,
Deal gently with the youth—with Absalom!”
His people listen'd as he spake. They saw
The weight of his great sorrows in his face,
His stooping form, the dust upon his brow,
And the deep mourning tremors in his voice.
Mightiest in numbers was the rebel host,
Which, seeking battle with an eager rage,
Drew nigh unto the army of the king.
Absalom cross'd the Jordan. Here he made
Amasa captain of his force—a chief,
Kinsman to Joab, fearless as himself,
And with as keen an appetite for blood.
The armies met in Gilead. Ephraim's wood
Beheld the dread encounter, while heaven's arm,
Sustaining the mock'd fortunes of the sire,
Fought 'gainst the rebel legions till they fled
With twenty thousand slain. The fell pursuit
Traversed the thicket with devouring sword,
That slew where'er it came. Then Absalom,
Lost in the intricate mazes of the wood,
Was seen by David's people as he sought
A refuge from pursuit. But they had heard
The entreaty of the sire to deal with him,
For his sake, gently; and they dropp'd their spears,
And turn'd their wrathful eyes on meaner foes.

Not so with Joab. He preferr'd to save
The monarch from the sire. He knew the heart
Of Absalom—his restless vanity,
The ready ear he gave to counsellors
That taught him rude rebellion; and he knew,
That, spared to other days, was but to spare
For worse rebellions still. When that he heard
Where Absalom was gather'd, he, alone,
Subduing in his soul the entreating voice
Of the old father, pleading for the son,
Sought out the unhappy fugitive. With arm
That never, or through fear or sympathy,
Had yet been taught to falter—through his heart
He thrust the unerring javelin till he died!
Then sounded Joab, the fierce conqueror,
The trumpet that recall'd the wild pursuit;
For he that would not spare the king's own son.
Yet knew to spare his people. He had shorn
The head of the offending; for the rest,
They had already, in their thousands slain,
Paid the sufficient penalty of crime.

All day, even from the hour when forth the host
Went at his bidding, had the monarch sat
Between the city gates, with mourning brow
And heart, misgiving of the fearful tale
He soon must yield to hear. The watchman stood
In the high tower above, far looking forth,
Intent, for messenger of good or ill.
And soon he came, for when was messenger
That spoke of evil, slow?
“Thy foes, O king!
This day have been deliver'd to thy hand!”
“But of the young man? What of Absalom?”
“May all the foes that rise against the king,
To do him mischief, share the young man's fate!”

Then burst the anguish of the agéd sire,
Forgetting all the king.
“Oh! Absalom,
Would God that I had died for thee, my son!”
Thus wailing, he ascended from the gate
And wept within the tower, until they brought
The mangled, but still beautiful form of him
Best loved, and stretch'd him on a bier of state
Even in the chamber where the monarch lay,
Prone to the dusty floor, no more a king,
Ashes upon his head and in his heart.
Still was the young man beautiful. His corse
Might still delight the eye. No blemish marr'd
The perfect symmetry of the lofty form
And the fine, noble features, save the wound
That still'd his heart forever. They had wash'd
The blood stains from his bosom ere they brought;
Had smooth'd in wonted flow and natural curl
The long fair hair, that was his grace and pride,
As Samson's was his strength. They had removed
His armor, helm, and shield, and bloody spear,
Ere they had placed him 'neath the eyes of him
Whose state these proofs had outraged; had disposed
His limbs in pure white garments; and he lay
Serene as one who sleeps a pleasant sleep,
Untroubled by a dream. As thus he slept,
The sire, no longer hush'd by curious gaze,
Sunk o'er the unconscious body of the son,
And clasp'd it to his breast. Then gush'd his eyes
With tears, and spoke his bursting heart with sobs
That shook his mighty frame.
“Oh! Absalom,
My son!—my son!—that wast so beautiful—
That art so beautiful, though in thy shroud,
With death's hand heavy on thy cold pale brow—
Thou, grievously misnamed thy father's peace,
That still hast been his woe; and now with pangs
But ill remind'st me of those happy hours,
When in thy mother, fair Macaiah's arms,
I felt in Geshur respite from my griefs,
And named thee, at thy birth, from my own peace,
Which thou hast still destroy'd. Oh! Absalom,
Why hast thou brought me to this woe, my son?
Thyself to this sad fate? To thee my heart
Turn'd ever with a preference, most unwise,
Over more faithful children. Still, in thee,
As pledge of precious loves and peaceful hours,
I found a joy that grew upon thy sight,
And my heart swam in rapture but to view
Thy stately shape, the graces of thy walk,
And the soul-beauty kindling in thy face!
Yet wast thou guilty and ungrateful still—
A rebel in thy service—treacherous
Even when most trusted. But alas! for me,
I cannot now reproach thee, Absalom,
Thou hear'st me not—thou canst rebel no more.
Would I had died for thee beneath the shaft,
Or, at the peril of my life, could now
But give thee back thy own. My son!—my son!—
Would God that I could die for thee, my son!

“What had I done to thee that thou shouldst fly
My presence, and take weapons in thy hand
Against these thin white hairs? Seeking this sway,
That, as thou seest, saves not from any grief;
Which, where the affections still abide with power,
Is still as open to the shafts of harm
As any subject breast. What was thy grief?
What wrong was done to thee? What favor'd voice
Spoke in thy father's ear against thy peace,
That thou couldst not o'erplead? I spared thee still,
When, at the cruel feast of Baal-Hazor,
Thou slew'st thy brother Amnon. I forbore,
Though, in thy lust of power, I saw thee take
A state upon thyself, and dignities
Unfitting son and subject: and I yearn'd,
Even in my secret soul, to see thee wear
This empire for thyself. Alas! my son,
Why, in thy youth and beauty, didst thou strive
Against thy father's love?—'gainst Heaven's decree.
Till thou call'dst down its bolts, my Absalom,
Stricken with the cruel death-dart in thy breast,
Making me desolate! Oh! erring Absalom,
Rebellious, seeking thy fond father's life,
And perishing in thy beauty and thy guilt—
Would I had died for thee, my son!—my son!

“Alas! thou hear'st not. Couldst thou hear, my voice
Should fill thine ear with chiding—but in vain!
I feel the echoes of my words come back,
Though breathed upon thy breast, as from a vault
Where all is dark and hollow. Death, I know,
Is on thee—on this brow where youth before
Had set her richest beauties—on thy tongue,
Which ever in music spake, even when its speech
Had birth in youthful passion, which misled
Too frequently the heart, that 'neath my hand,
Sleeps without pulse of feeling or of fear,
Having no passion more.
“Ah! they will come,
And deck thee for a chamber where no eyes
Shall look upon thy beauties—where, to see,
Were to feel fear and loathing. They will bear
Thy form from my embrace, and I shall go
To homes which thou shalt enter nevermore!
Oh! Absalom, my son, this had not been—
This fate of silence unto thee—this fear
Of human strifes and voices unto me—
But for the vain ambition which had birth
Even in thy strength and beauty. We must part:
Even now I hear the voices at the gate,
Of those who come to take thee to thy couch,
Whose cold thou shalt not feel. The chants arise
From drooping handmaids, who shall time thy steps
To vaults no song shall penetrate but mine.
My victory is mourning. All my host
Fly, scatter'd as a host that feels defeat,
Knowing how great thy father's agony,
Which still they dread to see. My people fly
The city which I cover with my shame,
Though to their fond fidelity this day
I owe my life and empire—saved in vain,
At price of thy most precious life, my son!
I must throw by the semblance of this grief,
And wear it in mine heart. I must put on
The aspect of the monarch and the man,
Lest I do wrong to champions, in whose faith
My crown is made secure. Joab will come
And chide me for this weakness, which declares
How happier it had left me to behold
My perishing hosts o'erthrown and stark in death,
Than the one rebel, whose unnatural power
Makes his life dearer to the heart it wrongs,
Than all Heaven's gifts beside. Alas! too true!
I leave thee, Absalom!—I tear away
From thy detaining fingers. They will take
And hide thee from my sight; and I shall sway,
Once more, the sceptre that thou took'st from me—
Sway with calm forehead and untrembling hand—
Though in the watches of the night, as now,
The voice of my great sorrow cries aloud,
My son, for thee—belovéd Absalom—
Would God that I had died for thee, my son!”