King looked forth and watched the sanguine strife,
Clothed in the golden panoply of war.
Upon his brow the stately monarch wore
The crown of all the tribes of Israel,
A-fire with jewels flashing in the sun
In bitter mockery of his trampled heart.
Noble in mien, yet, with a sorrowing soul,
Anxious his gaze--for in the sweltering surge
Three sons of Saul were battling with the rest;
His first-born, Jonathan; Abinadab;
And Melchi-shua--idols of his life!
Around him like a hurricane of hail
The pinioned shafts with aim unerring sped,
Bearing dark death upon their feathery wings.
The clashing sword its dismal carnage made
As foe met foe; and flashing sparks out-flew
As blade crossed blade with murderous intent.
The outcry rose--"They fly! they fly!" The King
Looked down upon the fray with trembling heart.
The bloody stream along the valley ran,
And chariots swept like eagles on the wind
On deathly mission borne. The conflict fierce
Waxed fiercer--fiercer still; the rain of gore
Wetted the soddened plain, and arrows flew
Thicker and faster through the darkening air.
The barbed spear, flung forth with stalwart arm,
Sped like a whirlwind on its flight of death.
Along the ranks the warrior's clarion call
Inspired to valorous life the struggling hosts,
And shouts of victory from contending hordes
Blended with sorrowing moans of dying men.
"Thy sons, O King!" a breathless herald cried,
Fresh from the carnage, bowing low his head,
Where Saul, heart-weary, watched the dreadful strife
On Gilboa's height. "Thy sons, O mighty King!"
The herald cried, and sank upon the ground
By haste exhausted. Saul, with fitful start,
Upraised the prostrate messenger. "My sons!
"What of them? Speak!" he gasped, with startled look,
"Dead!" moaned the herald, and an echo came,
As though deep down in some sepulchral vault
The word was spoken. From the heart of Saul
That mournful echo came--so sad and low!
"Dead! dead! Ah, woe is me!" he sadly sighed.
"My sons--my best beloved! Woe! Woe--alas!"
And as he spake, e'en while his head, gold-crowned,
Bent low in pain beneath the crushing blow,
An arrow from the foe his armour smote,
And pierced his breast, already rent with grief.
Then stepped with hurried tread a servant forth,
And plucked the arrow from its cruel feast,
Rending his robe to stanch the purple stream.
"Heed not the w