Each charming air of breath, and string,
Bring all to grace the obsequies of your dead king,
And high, as then your joy, let now your sorrow flow.
Saul, your great Saul is dead,
Who you with nature's choicest dainties fed,
Who you with nature's gayest wardrobe clad,
By whom you all her pride, and all her pleasures had:
For you, the precious worm his bowels spun,
For you, the Tyrian fish did purple run,
For you, the blest Arabia's spices grew,
And Eastern quarries hardened pearly dew;
The sun himself turned labourer for you:
For you, he hatched his golden births alone,
Wherewith you were arrayed, whereby you him outshone,
All this and more, you did to Saul's great conduct owe,
All this you lost in his unhappy overthrow.
8
Never before hadst thou so great,
Ne'er drunkest before so deep of Jewish blood,
Ne'er since the embattled hosts at Gibeah stood,
When three whole days took up the work of fate,
When a large tribe entered at once thy bill,
And threescore thousand victims to thy fury fell.
Upon the fatal mountain's head,
Lo! how the mighty chiefs lie dead!
There my belovèd Jonathan was slain,
The best of princes, and the best of men;
Cold death hangs on his cheeks, like an untimely frost
On early fruit; there sits, and smiles a sullen boast,
And yet looks pale at the great captive she has ta'en.
My Jonathan is dead! oh dreadful word of fame!
Oh grief! that I can speak't, and not become the same!
He's dead, and with him all our blooming hopes are gone,
And many a wonder, which he must have done,
And many a conquest, which he must have won.
