inished the deadly work. And
then, though Absalom had reared for himself a beautiful monument in the
king's dale at Jerusalem, they took his body from the tree and threw it
into a pit near by and made a great heap of stones over it. There was
no weeping at the grave of Absalom.

With the death of Absalom the rebellion was at an end; but David's
heart was broken. He waited at the gate of the city, more interested in
the welfare of his son than in the success of his army. Swift runners
approach! In answer to his question, "Is the young man safe?" he hears
reply that pierces his heart like a dagger. Up to his chamber over the
gate the king slowly passed weeping and bent with grief, and as he went
he said, "O my son Absalom! my son, my son Absalom! Would God I had
died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

A poet's conception of David's great grief on hearing of the death of
his son is portrayed in the following lines of N. P. Willis:

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 thy 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,
As to my bosom I have tried 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!

But death is on 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
To meet me, Absalom!

And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken.
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee--
And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom!

But this fountain! What birds and beasts here drank undisturbed before
man came to assert his lordshi