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Of Ephraim had received a thousand men,

To whom its pleasant shadows were a grave.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath

Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds

Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed

The matchless symmetry of Absalom.

His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they swayed

To the admitted air, as glossy now

As when in hours of gentle dalliance bathing

The snowy fingers of Judea’s girls.

His helm was at his feet; his banner, soiled

With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid

Reversed beside him; and the jewelled hilt,

Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,

Rested like mockery on his covered brow.

The soldiers of the king trod to and fro,

Clad in the garb of battle, and their chief,

The mighty Joab, stood beside his bier

And gazed upon the dark pall stedfastly,

As if he feared the slumberer might stir.

A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade

As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form

Of David entered, and he gave command