 | The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems |  |
77
THE SONG OF THE BETHLEHEMITE.
“And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul,
that David took an harp, and played with his hand: so Saul was refreshed,
and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him”
1st Samuel, Chap. xvi. ver. 23.
Deserted is the festal hall;
Nor page awaits the master's call;
Nor guest is there, nor warrior proud,
Nor servile flattery's fawning crowd:
The dancing girls' elastic bound;
The tabor's and the timbrel's sound;
The chiming harp's melodious tone,
From Salem's silent courts are gone.
Nor woman, with her soothing wiles,
With wreathed lips' voluptuous smiles,
With bright black eye, or braided tress,
Is seen in that desertedness.
And chill the golden sunbeams fall
Upon the carved cedar wall;
And lie, where none are pacing o'er,
Unbroken on the gilded floor.
Without, beside the palace gate,
Unnoticed now the camels wait.
What, though they bring of spice and gold
The costly freight of worth untold;
And what, though gems and pearls they bear,
And slaves of skill and beauty rare;
What boots spice, pearls, or bright ingot,
Or slaves?—the monarch heeds them not.
Silent and sad, in inmost hall,
Wrathful and stern, sits royal Saul,
Repining in his soul, with look
Austere that might not question brook;
With restless eye and changeful cheek,
And lip that moves, yet shuns to speak:
What, though his hand the sceptre bore
That never king had sway'd before;
What, though he sate the anointed one
On chosen Israel's conquering throne;
And love, and wine, and wealth, and power,
Are his to speed the lagging hour;
And might, and victory, and fame,
Have long been coupled with his name?
The sceptre from his hand is cast;
The throne possess'd, its pride is past;
The charm hath ceased in woman's eye;
The goblet stands untasted by;
And fame and victory are forgot;
And gold and power can please him not.
Anger'd in mood, in thought severe,
What may the mournful monarch cheer?
And who, in such a choice, may guide,
When every pleasure hath been tried?
And yet, of old could music sway—
A charm that lured his wrath away;
And there is one whose strains can bring
Joy from their mystic warbling.
A young and graceful Bethlehemite,
Skilful to touch the harp aright,
And he, with hand of tuneful power,
Perchance may soothe the moody hour.
He came—a ruddy youth and fair,
With eyes of light, and clustering hair;
And step so free as well might cope
With that of bounding antelope.
A golden harp before him stands;
With eye upturn'd, and ready hands,
Awhile he paused upon the strings,
Then quick the skilful finger flings;
And sweet the notes in prelude ran,
Till thus his answering voice began:
Nor page awaits the master's call;
Nor guest is there, nor warrior proud,
Nor servile flattery's fawning crowd:
The dancing girls' elastic bound;
The tabor's and the timbrel's sound;
The chiming harp's melodious tone,
From Salem's silent courts are gone.
Nor woman, with her soothing wiles,
With wreathed lips' voluptuous smiles,
With bright black eye, or braided tress,
Is seen in that desertedness.
78
Upon the carved cedar wall;
And lie, where none are pacing o'er,
Unbroken on the gilded floor.
Without, beside the palace gate,
Unnoticed now the camels wait.
What, though they bring of spice and gold
The costly freight of worth untold;
And what, though gems and pearls they bear,
And slaves of skill and beauty rare;
What boots spice, pearls, or bright ingot,
Or slaves?—the monarch heeds them not.
Silent and sad, in inmost hall,
Wrathful and stern, sits royal Saul,
Repining in his soul, with look
Austere that might not question brook;
With restless eye and changeful cheek,
And lip that moves, yet shuns to speak:
What, though his hand the sceptre bore
That never king had sway'd before;
What, though he sate the anointed one
On chosen Israel's conquering throne;
And love, and wine, and wealth, and power,
Are his to speed the lagging hour;
And might, and victory, and fame,
Have long been coupled with his name?
79
The throne possess'd, its pride is past;
The charm hath ceased in woman's eye;
The goblet stands untasted by;
And fame and victory are forgot;
And gold and power can please him not.
Anger'd in mood, in thought severe,
What may the mournful monarch cheer?
And who, in such a choice, may guide,
When every pleasure hath been tried?
And yet, of old could music sway—
A charm that lured his wrath away;
And there is one whose strains can bring
Joy from their mystic warbling.
A young and graceful Bethlehemite,
Skilful to touch the harp aright,
And he, with hand of tuneful power,
Perchance may soothe the moody hour.
He came—a ruddy youth and fair,
With eyes of light, and clustering hair;
And step so free as well might cope
With that of bounding antelope.
A golden harp before him stands;
With eye upturn'd, and ready hands,
Awhile he paused upon the strings,
Then quick the skilful finger flings;
80
Till thus his answering voice began:
Oh! bring from the depths of the dark blue sea
The silvery pearl, with its varying light;
And from Ophir the gold that so brilliantly
Can laugh in the beams of the noonday bright;
And match with them,
In their dazzling blaze,
The priceless gem,
With its thousand rays;
And though brilliant they be, yet my spirit shall call
A gem, that in lustre outdazzles them all!
The silvery pearl, with its varying light;
And from Ophir the gold that so brilliantly
Can laugh in the beams of the noonday bright;
And match with them,
In their dazzling blaze,
The priceless gem,
With its thousand rays;
And though brilliant they be, yet my spirit shall call
A gem, that in lustre outdazzles them all!
And sweeter than gales from Araby blowing;
And sweeter than perfume from Carmel that flies;
Or the lily's pure blossom, with myrrh overflowing;
Or the incense that breathes from the loved sacrifice:
Than the cedar-wood burning
In palace of kings,
Or that sweet bird returning
With rose-scented wings,
Is a perfume I know, and its fragrancy
In the richest of balms will the balmiest be.
And sweeter than perfume from Carmel that flies;
Or the lily's pure blossom, with myrrh overflowing;
Or the incense that breathes from the loved sacrifice:
Than the cedar-wood burning
In palace of kings,
Or that sweet bird returning
With rose-scented wings,
Is a perfume I know, and its fragrancy
In the richest of balms will the balmiest be.
Thou hast sate in the cool of the evening hour,
When the delicate leaf in the breeze did not stir;
And hast listen'd unseen, while in secret bower
Some loved voice sung thy deeds to the dear dulcimer;
And the swell of the timbrel,
To light dancing feet,
Where the melting harp call'd thee,
In pleasure to meet:
Thou hast heard these in gladness, and yet there may be
A music untold which is dearer to thee.
When the delicate leaf in the breeze did not stir;
81
Some loved voice sung thy deeds to the dear dulcimer;
And the swell of the timbrel,
To light dancing feet,
Where the melting harp call'd thee,
In pleasure to meet:
Thou hast heard these in gladness, and yet there may be
A music untold which is dearer to thee.
Yes, the innocent spirit, uncheck'd by a crime,
That warbles its praise to the God of all heaven;
This, this is the music to whose liquid chime
Is the best flow of melody given;
And the sigh that is breathed for the sad and forsaken,
And the breath of the contrite that rises in prayer;
Oh! the best of perfumes from the calamus shaken
May not with this fragrance compare:
And the eye that is turn'd to the blue vault above,
While the heavenly tear of devotion is sparkling;
Oh! this is the gem, in whose lustre of love
The brightest of jewels is darkling!
That warbles its praise to the God of all heaven;
This, this is the music to whose liquid chime
Is the best flow of melody given;
And the sigh that is breathed for the sad and forsaken,
And the breath of the contrite that rises in prayer;
Oh! the best of perfumes from the calamus shaken
May not with this fragrance compare:
And the eye that is turn'd to the blue vault above,
While the heavenly tear of devotion is sparkling;
Oh! this is the gem, in whose lustre of love
The brightest of jewels is darkling!
And thus, when thy spirit is anguish'd and lone,
This music can breathe with its tenderest tone;
And this perfume can bring to thy bosom delight;
And, in darkness and ruin, this gem can be bright.
This music can breathe with its tenderest tone;
82
And, in darkness and ruin, this gem can be bright.
The strain hath ceased; the monarch's brow
Is smooth'd, it hath no tumult now.
The demon of despair gave way
Before that youthful minstrel's lay;
And, once again, the royal Saul
Smiles gaily in the festal hall.
Is smooth'd, it hath no tumult now.
The demon of despair gave way
Before that youthful minstrel's lay;
And, once again, the royal Saul
Smiles gaily in the festal hall.
| The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems | |