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In a low tone to his few followers,

And left him with his dead. The king stood still

Till the last echo died; then throwing off

The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back

The pall from the still features of his child,

He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth

In the resistless eloquence of woe.

‘Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!

That death should settle in thy glorious eye,

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair!

How could he mark thee for the silent tomb,

My proud boy, Absalom!

‘Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill

When to my bosom I would try to press thee;

How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee,

And hear thy sweet “My Father!” from these dumb

And cold lips, Absalom!

‘The grave hath won thee; I shall hear the gush

Of music and the voices of the young;

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,

And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;

But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come