University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE THE FIRST.

David.
Da.
Here, God omnipotent, wilt thou that I
Restrain that course to which thou hast impell'd me?
Here will I stand?—These are Gilboa's mountains,
Now forming Israel's camp, exposed in front
To the impious Philistine. Ah, that I
Might fall to-day beneath the enemy's sword!
But death awaits me from the hand of Saul.
Ah cruel and infatuated Saul,
Who, without giving him a moment's respite,
Through caverns, and o'er cliffs, dost chase thy champion.
And, notwithstanding David formerly
Was thy defender: all thy confidence
In me hadst thou reposed; me didst thou raise
To honour's pinnacle; and as a spouse
I was by thee selected for thy daughter ...
But, as an inauspicious dowry, thou
Didst ask of me, dissevered from thy foes,
A hundred heads: and I have brought of them
To thee, faithfully brought, a double harvest ...
But Saul, I clearly see, in thought is stricken;
Long hath he been so; to an evil spirit
His God abandons his perverted mind:
Oh Heaven! Distracted mortals, what are we
If God forsake us?—Night, do thou soon yield
Thy shades to the glad sun; for he to-day
The witness of a generous enterprise
Is destined to shine forth. Gilboa, thou
Shalt, to the latest ages, be renown'd;
They shall record of thee, that David here
Himself surrendered to ferocious Saul.—
March forth, oh Israel, from thy peaceful tents;
March forth from them, oh King: I challenge you
To-day to witness, if I yet am versed
In military arts. And march thou forth,
Impious Philistine; march thou forth, and see
Whether my sword have yet the power to smite.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Jonathan, David.
Jon.
What voice hath caught my ears? I hear a voice
Skilful to penetrate my heart.

Da.
Who comes? ...
Oh that the dawn would rise! Fain would not I
Like a base fugitive present myself ...

Jon.
What! ho! Who art thou? Near the royal tent,
What is thy business? Speak.

Da.
'Tis Jonathan ...
Courage.—A son of war, and Israel's stay,
Am I. Philistia trembles at my name.

Jon.
What do I hear? Ah! David could alone
Thus answer.

Da.
Jonathan ...

Jon.
My brother ... David!

Da.
Oh joy! ... To thee ...

Jon.
And can it then be true?
Thou in Gilboa? Fear'st thou not my father?
I tremble for thee! ...

Da.
Wherefore speak'st thou thus?
Death present, in the fight, a thousand times
Have I beheld and braved: for a long time
I have since fled thy father's unjust rage;
But to the valiant fear alone is death.
No longer now I fear: with mighty danger
The monarch, and his people, are encompass'd;
Shall David be the recreant meanwhile
To skulk securely in untrodden forests?
While imminent o'er you the weapons hang
Of the unfaithful, shall I take a thought
Of my own safety? I come here to die;
But, like a hero, in my country's cause,
Amid the clash of arms, and in the camp,
And for that very ill-requiting Saul
Who now pursues me with the cry of death.

Jon.
Oh virtue, worthy David! God's elect
Thou art assuredly. That God hath sent
His angel as his minister to guard thee,
Who with such superhuman thoughts inspires
Thy lofty heart.—Yet to the monarch's presence
How shall I bring thee? He believes, or feigns,
That thou art enroll'd among his enemies;
And taxes thee with treachery and rebellion.

Da.
Alas! too forcibly he tempted me
To seek a refuge 'mid the foes of Israel.
But if those foes impugn him with their arms,
I war with them, for him, till they're subdued.
Then let him afterwards repeat to me
My ancient recompense,—his hate and death.

Jon.
Unhappy father! There are who deceive him.
Perfidious Abner, a dissembling friend,
Is ever at his side. The ghastly demon,
That hath possess'd, and subjugates his heart,
At least bestows on him a transient respite;
But Abner's unrelenting artifice
Never forsakes him. He alone is heard,
He only; he alone is loved. To Saul,
Like a malignant parasite, he paints
All that surpasses his frail excellence,
As dangerous and uncertain. With thy father,
In vain thy wife and I ...

Da.
My wife! Loved name?
Where is my faithful Michal, where? Does she,
Spite of her cruel father, love me yet?

Jon.
Love thee, say'st thou? ... She, too, is in the camp ...

Da.
Oh Heaven! Shall I behold her then? Oh joy!
How came she in the camp? ...

Jon.
Her father felt
Pity for her; alone he would not leave her,
A victim to her sorrow, in the palace:
And even she, though always sad, affords
To him some comfort. Ah! since thy departure,
Our house, indeed, has been the house of tears.

Da.
Beloved spouse! Thy renovating look
Will banish every thought of past distress;
Banish all thoughts of suffering to come.

Jon.
Ah, hadst thou seen her! ... Scarcely had she lost thee,
When every ornament her grief disdain'd:
With loathsome ashes her dishevell'd hair;
With desolation, pallidness, and tears,
And leanness, was her countenance disfigured;
Profound mute grief sat on her trembling heart.
A thousand times each day she prostrate fell
Before her father; and with sobs exclaim'd,
“Restore my David, thou who gav'st him to me.”
Her garments thence she rent; and, weeping, bathed
Her father's hand, that even he shed tears.
Who could refrain?—Abner alone; and he
Insisted that, half dead e'en as she was,
She should be sever'd from her father's feet.

Da.
Oh sight! Oh what dost thou recount to me?

Jon.
Would it were not the truth! ... At thy departure
Peace, glory, enterprise in arms, departed.
The hearts of Israel are benumb'd with dread;
Philistia's sons, who heretofore appear'd
Mere striplings when we fought beneath thy banners,
Now, since no more we have thee for our leader,
With port colossal stalk before our eyes:
Pent in this valley, mindless of ourselves,
Threats, insults, and derision, we endure.
Why should we wonder? Israel hath at once
In David lost her judgment and her sword.
I, who, pursuing thy heroic steps,
Elate with conscious glory trod the camp,
Now feel my right-hand impotent to smite.
Now that so often I behold thee, David,
Exposed to hardships, sever'd from my side,
Pursued by danger, now no more I seem
To combat for my monarch, and my father,
My wife, my children; far more dear to me
Art thou than country, father, wife, and sons ...

Da.
Thou lovest me, and more than I deserve:
May God reward thy love ...

Jon.
The God of justice,
The swift rewarder of true excellence,
He is with thee. By dying Samuel wert thou
In Rama recognized; the sacred lips
Of the anointed prophet, by whose means
My sire was crown'd, great marvels prophesied
Of thee in after times: hence, in my sight
Thy life is no less sacred than beloved.
Th'insidious perils of the court alone
For thee alarm me; not those of the camp.
But death, and treachery; death's harbinger,
Round these pavilions hover evermore:
Death, Abner gives it; often Saul commands it.
Ah, David! hide thyself; until, at least,
The mountain echo with the warlike trumpet.
To-day I deem that we shall be compell'd
To meet our foes.

Da.
And shall a valorous deed
Be like a scheme of guilt by stealth transacted?
Saul shall behold me ere I meet my foes.
I bring with me what must confound; what must
Reform the hardest of all harden'd hearts,
I bring; and first the fury of the king,
Then that of hostile swords, I will confront.—
What canst thou say, oh king, if I to thee
Bend, as thy servant, my submissive brows?
I who, the husband of thy daughter, ask
Pardon of thee for ne'er committed faults:
Thy ancient champion I; who in the jaws
Of mortal danger, as thy comrade, shield,
Or victim, offer now myself to thee.—
The sacred old man dying greeted me
In Rama, and address'd me like a father;
And in my arms expired. As his own son
He formerly loved Saul: but what reward
Had he for this? The holy, dying man,
Enjoin'd my love and fealty to the king,
Not less than blind obedience to my God.
His latest words shall be, e'en till I die,
Indelibly engraven on my heart:
“Ah, wretched Saul! if thou art not more wise,
“The wrath of the Most High will fall upon thee.”
This Samuel said to me.—My Jonathan,
Fain would I see thee from the just revenge
Of Heaven exempt: and thou, I trust, shall be:
And so we all shall be; and Saul, who yet
May pardon seek, and reconcilement gain.
Ah woe, if th'everlasting send his bolt
Of vengeance from the gaping firmament!
Thou know'st, that often in the fierce career
Of his retributory punishments,
He hath involved the guiltless with the guilty.
His irresistible, impetuous flash
On earth rebounds, extirpates, and dissolves,
With the infected reprobated plant,
The flowers, the fruits, the foliage of the rest.

Jon.
David can, with his God, do much for Saul.
Oft in the visions of the night I've seen thee,
And so sublime in look, that at thy feet
Prostrate I've fallen.—More I shall not say;
Nor more should'st thou to me. Long as I live,
I swear, that sword of Saul shall ne'er descend
To injure thee, no never. But, oh Heaven!
How can I screen thee from vile stratagems? ...
Here, 'mid the pleasures of the costly banquet,
Here, 'mid th'accordance of bewitching sounds,
Is poison oft imbibed in faithless gold.
Ah! who from this can guard thee?

Da.
Israel's God,
If I deserve deliverance; not a host,
If I deserve destruction.—But inform me,
Can I now see my wife before my father?
Till the dawn breaks I would not enter there ...

Jon.
On downy plumes doth she await the day?
Before the dawn she duly comes to me
To weep thy absence; and together here
We put up prayers to God for our sick father ...
Behold! a form in white not far from us
Gleams indistinctly: perhaps it is she:
A little step aside, and listen to her;
But if it be another, do not now,
I pray thee, shew thyself.

Da.
I will obey thee.

SCENE THE THIRD.

Michal, Jonathan.
Mi.
Long hated night, wilt thou ne'er disappear? ...
But doth the sun, indeed, for me arise
The harbinger of joy? Ah wretched me!
For I in everlasting darkness pine!—
Hast thou, my brother, left thy bed the earliest?
Yet, certainly, my frame, that never rests,
Was most exhausted. But how can I rest
On easy pillows, while on the hard earth,
Banish'd, a fugitive, within the dens
Of cruel beasts, and watch'd by ambush'd foes,
My David lies? Ah, father, fiercer far
Than ravening monsters of the wilderness!
Hard-hearted Saul! Thou takest from thy child
Her husband, and thou takest not her life?—
Hear me, my brother, here no more I tarry:
'Twill be a noble deed if thou go with me:
But if thou go not, I alone will venture
His footsteps to retrace. I am resolved
To find my husband, or to suffer death.

Jon.
Delay a little while; and dry thy tears:
Perhaps our David will come to Gilboa ...

Mi.
What say'st thou? Can he e'er approach the place
Which Saul inhabits? ...

Jon.
David will be drawn,
Drawn irresistibly by his fond heart,
And his unswerving constancy, t'approach
The place where Jonathan and Michal dwell.
Dost thou not think that his prevailing love
Can bid defiance to the power of fear?
And would'st thou wonder if he dared come hither?

Mi.
Oh, I should tremble for his life ... But yet
The seeing him would make me ...

Jon.
And if he
Fear'd nothing? ... and should he with arguments
Defend his vent'rous enterprise?—The king,
Less terrible in his adversity
Than in prosperity, bewilder'd stands,
His powers mistrusting; this thou know'st full well.
Since the invincible right-hand of David
For him disperses not yon hostile ranks,
Saul fears; but, arrogant, he speaks it not.
Each of us in his face can well discern
That hopes of victory are not in his heart.
Perhaps this moment he would see thy spouse.

Mi.
Yes, it is true perhaps; but he is far; ...
Ah! where? ... and in what state? ...

Jon.
More than thou thinkest
He is near to thee.

Mi.
Heavens! ... why mock me thus? ...

SCENE THE FOURTH.

David, Michal, Jonathan.
Da.
Thy spouse is at thy side.

Mi.
Oh voice! ... oh sight! ...
I cannot speak for joy!—Supreme amazement! ...
And is it true that I at last embrace thee? ...

Da.
Beloved wife! ... Hard has my absence been! ...
Death, if I'm doom'd to meet with thee to-day,
By all that love me, and by all I love,
I am at least surrounded. Better die
At once, than languish on in solitude
A weary life, where thou by none art loved,
And where thou lovest none. Thou thirsty sword
Of Saul, I here expect thee; take my life;
Here will my eyes at least be closed in death
By my beloved wife; my limbs composed;
And bathed by her with tears of real grief.

Mi.
My David! ... Thou at once the source and end
Of all my hopes, ah may thy coming here
To me be joyful! God, who rescued thee
From such prodigious oft-repeated dangers,
Restores thee not to us in vain to-day ...
Oh, with what strength thy sight alone inspires me.
So much I trembled for thee when remote,
Almost I cease to tremble for thee now ...
But what do I behold? In what uncouth
And savage garment wrapt, the dawn of day
Displays thee to my eyes? My long'd-for champion,
How art thou stripp'd of every ornament?
No more that robe of gilded purple shades
Thy limbs majestic, which these hands of mine
Embroider'd for thy use. So indigent,
Who would suppose thou wert the monarch's son?
Thou seem'st a vulgar warrior, and no more
By thy accoutrements.

Da.
We are in the camp;
Not in the centre of th'effeminate court:
The rustic cassock, and the sharpen'd sword,
Are most befitting here. I am resolved
To-day once more in the Philistines' blood
My garments to impurple. Thou, meanwhile,
Rely with me on Israel's mighty God,
Who from destruction can deliver me
If I deserve not death.

Jon.
Behold, the day
Is fully now reveal'd: to linger here
Thou canst not with impunity persist.
Although, perchance, thou comest opportunely,
Still it behoves thee to advance with caution.—
Each morn we are accustom'd at this hour
To meet our father. We will scrutinize
How he to-day is govern'd and possess'd
By his distemper'd humour: by degrees
We will prepare him, if occasion smiles,
For thy reception; and will obviate,
That no one first to him malignantly
Report thy reappearance. Thou, meanwhile,
Keep thyself separate, lest any one
Should recognize thee here, and circumvent thee;
And Abner even cause thee to be slain.
Lower the visor of thy helmet; mix
Among the undistinguish'd warriors,
And, unobserved, await till I return
To thee, or send for thee ...

Mi.
Among the warriors
How can my David be conceal'd? What eye
Darts from beneath the morion like his?
Who wields a sword that may with his compare?
And whose arms clang with such a martial sound?
Ah no! my love, 'twere better thou wert hid
Till I return to thee. Ah wretched me!
Scarce found, must I surrender thee already?
But only for an instant; after that,
Never, no never, will I leave thee more.
Yet first would I see thee conceal'd in safety.
Behold! dost thou not see a spacious grot
In the recesses of that gloomy wood?
There oft have I invoked thee, from the world
Retired, and sigh'd for thee, and thought on thee;
There with my bitter tears have I bedew'd
The rugged stones: in this conceal thyself,
Till the fit time come for discovering thee.

Da.
In all things, Michal, I would yield to thee.
Go in implicit trust: I am impell'd
By a sure instinct, and at random act not;
I love you both; for your sakes do I live;
And in Jehovah only I confide.