Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Death of Goliath

The Death of Goliath.

His heart is cold, his head is low, And his pride of strength departed;Withered in death the dauntless brow, And the look that terror darted.

Oh! Elah's vale is red with gore, And steel with steel is clashing;But where is he who rushed before, Like a flame through the columns dashing?

Young hero of Elah! did sleep Thy sword in its scabbard that morning?No—many a maiden shall weep When she sees not her lover returning.

And many a widow lament The chariot wheels delayingOf the lord of her heart, thon hast sent To his long sleep, thy prowess displaying!

Ye daughters of Israel rejoice, With tabret and wild cymbals sounding;And raised be the loveliest voice, The fame of the hero resounding.

But vainly the sword of the brave Might flash, like the meteor gleaming,Had the Lord not arisen to save His chosen from slavery redeeming!

But hush!—for the scoffer's at hand, And the spirit of song hath departed;Oh! 'tis strange in a far distant land, That my harp from its willow is parted!