CXLIII. 2 Samuel, Chap. II. from Ver. 19. to Ver. 23.
David anointed King by the Tribe of
Judah. Ishbosheth made King by Abner.
Asahel slain.
Thus fell unhappy Saul, and in his stead
The promis'd Crown adorns young David's Head:
Brave Abner for a while resists in vain,
Divides, but can't prevent his fated Reign:
Weak Ishbosheth, who now, almost alone
Surviv'd, he plac'd on his Great Father's Throne:
His Fame did Israel to his Party bring,
And Abner rul'd, tho' Ishbosheth was King:
But Judah's pow'rful Tribe for David stood,
Pleas'd with the Choice of Heav'n (and with their Kindred-Blood.)
Weary of Peace, at length the Tribes engage
In civil Discord, and intestine Rage.
Abner, th'Aggressor—he to Gibeon went,
And first will he th'unequal War repent:
Fierce Joab hears with Joy; the Guards he heads,
And to repel the bold Invader leads:
Their Out-guards met, awhile suspended stood,
And their new Foes with sullen Silence view'd,
But soon in Blood their thirsty Swords embrew'd;
No Skill, no Fear, no Mercy there, but All
The desp'rate Champion's close, and mingled fall.
Nor these cou'd hungry Death suffice, for they
But Preludes to the Slaughter of the Day:
The Bodies joyn, with equal Fury fir'd,
By turns each other push'd, by turns retir'd:
Till Conquest saw at last the beck of Fate,
And threw in David's Scale her over-weight.
Nor Abner's self his tott'ring Host cou'd stay,
Himself he's in the Torrent born away:
Yet oft he stands, for he disdains to yield,
And heads the scatter'd Reliques of the Field:
Thus, press'd with Odds, the Lion sow'rly flies,
And glares on his rash Foes with Blood-shot Eyes;
If any reach his Paws, the bold Invader dies,
Thus forward Asahel far'd, who swift as Wind,
Pursu'd and press'd the Hero close behind:
Unarm'd the panting Warrior ran, and light,
As hasting to a Conquest, not a Fight:
Ah, heedless Boy! the gen'rous Abner cry'd,
Turn from thy hast'ning Fate—yet turn aside!
If thou thy unflesh'd Valour long to try,
Single a less unequal Enemy!
Closer he plies, and soon he hopes to share
The Gen'ral's Spoils, the noblest Prize of War:
Agen the Hero warns,—he presses on;
'Tis in the Fates, thy Fate thou canst not shun,
Great Abner sighing said—that 'tis not Fear
Which warns thee thus, learn from my faithful Spear!
Then struck—to Life's chief Seat the way it found,
And Blood and Soul rush mingled thro' the Wound.
So falls the lovely Lily, Natures Pride,
When ruthless Shares its Stem, and beauteous Head divide.
The furious Victors, who pursu'd before,
Now stand, to see him weltring in his Gore;
While Abner rallys after his Defeat,
And mournful Joab sounds a late Retreat:
All Night he march'd, the Host to Hebron come,
And bear his Brother's Corps with joyless Triumphs home.
