Poor blackened lips!— I wonder if they dream, My pretty children Come, Mephibosheth, Here is your father; say "God save the king!" Why should they die for what they never did? Whose son is he, this youth? Dost know him, Ha, ha! they shout again "God save the king!" Was I asleep? I came not here to sleep. O poor old eyes, sorrow has made you weak. My sons! No, naught has touched them. O, how cold! Cold, cold! O stars of God, have pity on me, Poor, lonely woman! O my sons, Saul's sons! JOHN READE He 52 THE SONG OF DAVID II Samuel xxii sang of God, the mighty source Of all things, the stupendous force On which all strength depends; Commences, reigns, and ends. The world, the clustering spheres He made, The multitudinous abyss, Where secrecy remains in bliss, And wisdom hides her skill. Tell them I am, Jehovah said CHRISTOPHER SMART 53 DAVID'S THREE MIGHTY ONES II Samuel xxiii. 15 Faint on Rephaim's sultry side 66 Sat Israel's warrior king; Oh, for one draught," the hero cried, 66 From Bethlehem's cooling spring! From Bethlehem's spring, upon whose brink "I know the spot, by yonder gate, "But round that gate, and in that home, The Philistine holds Bethlehem's halls, Three gallant men stood nigh, and heard And dashed from midst the rest. The foe fast mustering to attack, Long for a cup from Bethlehem's spring, And now the city gate they gain, Against unnumbered foes. Yet through their ranks they plough their way The gate is forced, the crowd is passed; While hosts are gathering fierce and fast Haste back! haste back! ye desperate three! They come again, and with them bring A single cup from Bethlehem's spring And through the densest of the train O'er broken shields and prostrate foes But hope not, Pagans, to withstand Hurrah! hurrah! again they're free; On the green turf they bend the knee, Then onward through the shouting throng All in their blood and dust they sink And if the draught our lord delight, With deep emotion David took From their red hands the cup; "I prize your boon," exclaimed the king, 66 But dare not taste the draught you bring. "I prize the zeal that perill'd life A wish of mine to crown; "To Heaven the glorious spoil is due; And His the offering be, Whose arm hath borne you safely through, A free libation to the Lord. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE |