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The heart that cherished him—for him he poured,

In agony that would not be controlled,

Strong supplication, and forgave him there

Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The hosts were numbered. At Mahanaim’s gate

Sat David, as the glittering thousands passed

Forth to the battle. With a troubled eye

He looked upon their pomp, and as the helms

Bent low before him, and the banners swayed

Like burnished wings to do him reverence,

His look grew restless, and he did not wear

The lofty sternness of a monarch’s brow.

The leader of the host came by. His form

Was like a son of Anak, and he strode

Majestically on, and bore his crest

As men were waters, and his frame a rock.

The king rose up to Joab, and came near,

As his tall helm was bowed; and by the love

He bore his master, he besought him there

That he would spare him Absalom alive.

He passed with his stern warriors on; the trump

And the loud cymbal died upon the ear;

And as the king turned off his weary gaze,

The last faint gleam had vanished, and the wood