War Drums (Scharkie)/Absalom
ABSALOM.
He stood before the palace gates like Horus,
More than mortal man—so god-like; yet
As Moloch, beautiful, but smeared with blood.
Him, crimsoning morn lit with an aureole glister,
As boreal winds stirred the deep tresses round
His shoulders fall'n; wherein were gathered Ceylon's
Costliest spices, ointments of the further Ind,
And Ophir's finest dust of gold.
Not dewy haw in Sharon's valley blooming,
Nor Siloam's pools lapt o'er with myrrh and lily,
Seemed half so lovely, nor so sweet,
Though scintillating stars, couched on the nearmost
Rim of heaven, glassed each itself within
The pools, and Syriac gales shook the dewdrops along the rands.
Before him, capt with fire, those silent-lifting
Seven towers, gold-bossed and burnished, broke
Upwards, and from loftiest pinnacle—
A golden globule like a fiery star—
Flamed sentinel eye on domes and serried battlements,
Carved porticoes wrought round with basilisk
And pard, high halls, polished and garlandered,
And intersected courts, dotted with lawns,
And flowery knolls, and fountains flashing deep
In sprinkling torrents, like low moonbeams
Trampling waves to silver.
He gazed, yet spake not; but his thoughts burnt on
Him like a fever. Not revenge, nor aught
Of that basilic pomp and pageantry
Allured him, but an impulse, hell-born, scathed
His soul as lightning scathes an oak-tree, and
His conscience, wildering 'neath the sulphury storm
Of overwhelming evil, knew no light
But lust, no hope but night, no joy but madness.
Swift, he turned, and launching 'thwart his snorting
Bayard, swifter flew, nor drew till gate
And bar unbolted sprang, flashing imbronzed;
And lusty sentinels hurraed; and every
Hebronite acclaimed with rebel cheer,
"Hail Ishbosheth!—Long live king Absalom!"
****
A pleasant day for pleasant deeds;
A floating haze on summer seas,
With scarce a wind to break the deep's repose;
O'er-arching osiers lapt in leafy dreams;
Nature's own deepest silence, like
A nimbus gradual, begirting all things.
In sooth, a pleasant day for pleasant deeds,
And not for strife. But hark! sounds not
Aerial thunders deep'ning from the seas?
Lebanon hath cast his snows long since; hoarse roars
The Jordan past his stormy shores no more.
His turbulent floods have lapt to silence,—aye!
He sleeps, like Innocence, in silence to the deep.
But hark!—more near and ominously dread:
Peels deep'ning, yet no clouds. But see!—
Plumes tossing, and the polished spear flashing
Flame-tipt refulgence to the sun; rider
And steed, chariot and car, and serried ranks
In dangerous phalanx, moving steadily
To stirring notes of flutes, and drums, and trumps.
II
Another day has risen; storm clouds, dun,
Roll to the sky, and dark obscure the sun.
From Pisgah's heights, the ominous thunder roll
Falls, pealing like a death-knell on the soul;
While sullying smoke-columns, more like funeral shrouds,
Wreathe slowly, thick and sombre to the clouds,
Which, pall-like, lowering with portentous doom,
Shall shroud a rebel in a deeper gloom.
*****
There was the sudden charge, the sharp recoil
That gathers breathing for a bloodier toil.
The swinging blade that menaced many a throat,
Full-clashed, resounding on the blade it smote.
The victim's shrieks, fast-sinking as he bleeds,
And war cries mingling with the tramp of steeds,
Where swaying lines, with furious hate anew,
Whirled high the blade, and shouted as they slew;
While every mountain peak and forest rang
With answering echoes to the battle clang
And deep'ning hours, devolving into night,
Lulled into sleep the triumph, and the flight.
Cynthia's pale beams a spectral radiance gave,
Where youth and glory perished with the brave.
Grim silence reigned where hope was won and lost,
And battle reaped its bloody holocaust.
More than mortal man—so god-like; yet
As Moloch, beautiful, but smeared with blood.
Him, crimsoning morn lit with an aureole glister,
As boreal winds stirred the deep tresses round
His shoulders fall'n; wherein were gathered Ceylon's
Costliest spices, ointments of the further Ind,
And Ophir's finest dust of gold.
Not dewy haw in Sharon's valley blooming,
Nor Siloam's pools lapt o'er with myrrh and lily,
Seemed half so lovely, nor so sweet,
Though scintillating stars, couched on the nearmost
Rim of heaven, glassed each itself within
The pools, and Syriac gales shook the dewdrops along the rands.
Before him, capt with fire, those silent-lifting
Seven towers, gold-bossed and burnished, broke
Upwards, and from loftiest pinnacle—
A golden globule like a fiery star—
Flamed sentinel eye on domes and serried battlements,
Carved porticoes wrought round with basilisk
And pard, high halls, polished and garlandered,
And intersected courts, dotted with lawns,
And flowery knolls, and fountains flashing deep
In sprinkling torrents, like low moonbeams
Trampling waves to silver.
He gazed, yet spake not; but his thoughts burnt on
Him like a fever. Not revenge, nor aught
Of that basilic pomp and pageantry
Allured him, but an impulse, hell-born, scathed
His soul as lightning scathes an oak-tree, and
His conscience, wildering 'neath the sulphury storm
Of overwhelming evil, knew no light
But lust, no hope but night, no joy but madness.
Swift, he turned, and launching 'thwart his snorting
Bayard, swifter flew, nor drew till gate
And bar unbolted sprang, flashing imbronzed;
And lusty sentinels hurraed; and every
Hebronite acclaimed with rebel cheer,
"Hail Ishbosheth!—Long live king Absalom!"
****
A pleasant day for pleasant deeds;
A floating haze on summer seas,
With scarce a wind to break the deep's repose;
O'er-arching osiers lapt in leafy dreams;
Nature's own deepest silence, like
A nimbus gradual, begirting all things.
In sooth, a pleasant day for pleasant deeds,
And not for strife. But hark! sounds not
Aerial thunders deep'ning from the seas?
Lebanon hath cast his snows long since; hoarse roars
The Jordan past his stormy shores no more.
His turbulent floods have lapt to silence,—aye!
He sleeps, like Innocence, in silence to the deep.
But hark!—more near and ominously dread:
Peels deep'ning, yet no clouds. But see!—
Plumes tossing, and the polished spear flashing
Flame-tipt refulgence to the sun; rider
And steed, chariot and car, and serried ranks
In dangerous phalanx, moving steadily
To stirring notes of flutes, and drums, and trumps.
II
Another day has risen; storm clouds, dun,
Roll to the sky, and dark obscure the sun.
From Pisgah's heights, the ominous thunder roll
Falls, pealing like a death-knell on the soul;
While sullying smoke-columns, more like funeral shrouds,
Wreathe slowly, thick and sombre to the clouds,
Which, pall-like, lowering with portentous doom,
Shall shroud a rebel in a deeper gloom.
*****
There was the sudden charge, the sharp recoil
That gathers breathing for a bloodier toil.
The swinging blade that menaced many a throat,
Full-clashed, resounding on the blade it smote.
The victim's shrieks, fast-sinking as he bleeds,
And war cries mingling with the tramp of steeds,
Where swaying lines, with furious hate anew,
Whirled high the blade, and shouted as they slew;
While every mountain peak and forest rang
With answering echoes to the battle clang
And deep'ning hours, devolving into night,
Lulled into sleep the triumph, and the flight.
Cynthia's pale beams a spectral radiance gave,
Where youth and glory perished with the brave.
Grim silence reigned where hope was won and lost,
And battle reaped its bloody holocaust.
The day that breaks in light may sink in storms,
And hope may crumble at the wrecks of loss.
The utmost bounds of all things lie across
The ebb and flow of all that fate performs.
And hope may crumble at the wrecks of loss.
The utmost bounds of all things lie across
The ebb and flow of all that fate performs.
Enough! The violet blooms on Torno's steep;
Thus, thus we laud its simple lovely grace.
But hot blasts beat the petals down, and sweep
Its ashes, reckless from its dwelling place—
Thus, thus we laud its simple lovely grace.
But hot blasts beat the petals down, and sweep
Its ashes, reckless from its dwelling place—
Life gropes behind the curtains of its fate;
The world, struck blind 'neath its own shadow-view,
Beats its own drums to rappel and tatoo—
Purple and ashes of its lorn estate.
The world, struck blind 'neath its own shadow-view,
Beats its own drums to rappel and tatoo—
Purple and ashes of its lorn estate.