Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/163

Think not that royal Saul would raise his arm,
To wound thy bosom, or procure thy harm.—
My God forbid that such a rash decree
Should pass his lips, yet be conceal'd from me."
But still upon the sufferer's brow there strove
A fix'd despair with agonizing love,—
—"Suppose ye not the king our friendship knows,
And like a sire regards his son's repose?—
See! near our feet a narrow streamlet bends
Close at our side a thicket's shade extends,
With one short step the opposing marge I press,
Or with another gain yon wove recess,
But shorter is the step, more brief the wave
Between thy servant, and a gory grave."—
"Oh! let thy brow once more serenely shine,
Lift up those sunk and tearful eyes to mine,
For by yon heavens that arch above our head,
And by that Hand which all those glories spread,
If I my Father's secret purpose find,
Yet hide that purpose from thy wounded mind,
Let vengeful thunders from the concave roll,
And that dread Hand requite my perjured soul.—
Now, summon'd, to our stated feast I go,
Yet not to revel, but partake thy wo,
And deeply treasured in my heart will bear
Thy lonely lot, thy wanderings, and thy care.—
But thou, within thy secret haunt remain,
Till the third morn imprint the dewy plain,
Then with my quiver will I seek the place
As if I purposed to pursue the chase,—
And if I there my stripling servant guide,
To catch the arrow dropping at my side,