« PreviousContinue »
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.
Farewell to others, but never we part,
Thou whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet's form appear.
Samuel, raise thy buried head!
Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud :
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
“ Why is my sleep disquieted ?
" Who is he that calls the dead ?
“ Is it thou, Oh King ? Behold
“ Such are mine; and such shall be “ Thine, to-morrow, when with me: “ Ere the coming day is done,
“ Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
“ Fare thee well, but for a day; “ Then we mix our mouldering clay. “ Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, “ Pierced by shafts of many a bow; “ And the falchion by thy side, “ To thy heart, thy hand shall guide : “ Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
“Son and sire, the house of Saul!”