War Drums (Scharkie)/Absalom
ABSALOM.
He stood before the palace gates like Horus,More than mortal man—so god-like; yetAs Moloch, beautiful, but smeared with blood.Him, crimsoning morn lit with an aureole glister,As boreal winds stirred the deep tresses roundHis shoulders fall'n; wherein were gathered Ceylon'sCostliest spices, ointments of the further Ind,And Ophir's finest dust of gold.Not dewy haw in Sharon's valley blooming,Nor Siloam's pools lapt o'er with myrrh and lily,Seemed half so lovely, nor so sweet,Though scintillating stars, couched on the nearmostRim of heaven, glassed each itself within The pools, and Syriac gales shook the dewdrops along the rands.Before him, capt with fire, those silent-liftingSeven towers, gold-bossed and burnished, brokeUpwards, and from loftiest pinnacle—A golden globule like a fiery star—Flamed sentinel eye on domes and serried battlements,Carved porticoes wrought round with basiliskAnd pard, high halls, polished and garlandered,And intersected courts, dotted with lawns,And flowery knolls, and fountains flashing deepIn sprinkling torrents, like low moonbeamsTrampling waves to silver.He gazed, yet spake not; but his thoughts burnt onHim like a fever. Not revenge, nor aughtOf that basilic pomp and pageantryAllured him, but an impulse, hell-born, scathedHis soul as lightning scathes an oak-tree, andHis conscience, wildering 'neath the sulphury stormOf overwhelming evil, knew no lightBut lust, no hope but night, no joy but madness. Swift, he turned, and launching 'thwart his snortingBayard, swifter flew, nor drew till gateAnd bar unbolted sprang, flashing imbronzed;And lusty sentinels hurraed; and everyHebronite acclaimed with rebel cheer,"Hail Ishbosheth!—Long live king Absalom!"****A pleasant day for pleasant deeds;A floating haze on summer seas,With scarce a wind to break the deep's repose;O'er-arching osiers lapt in leafy dreams;Nature's own deepest silence, likeA nimbus gradual, begirting all things.In sooth, a pleasant day for pleasant deeds,And not for strife. But hark! sounds notAerial thunders deep'ning from the seas?Lebanon hath cast his snows long since; hoarse roarsThe Jordan past his stormy shores no more.His turbulent floods have lapt to silence,—aye!He sleeps, like Innocence, in silence to the deep.But hark!—more near and ominously dread:Peels deep'ning, yet no clouds. But see!— Plumes tossing, and the polished spear flashingFlame-tipt refulgence to the sun; riderAnd steed, chariot and car, and serried ranksIn dangerous phalanx, moving steadilyTo stirring notes of flutes, and drums, and trumps.IIAnother day has risen; storm clouds, dun,Roll to the sky, and dark obscure the sun.From Pisgah's heights, the ominous thunder rollFalls, pealing like a death-knell on the soul;While sullying smoke-columns, more like funeral shrouds,Wreathe slowly, thick and sombre to the clouds,Which, pall-like, lowering with portentous doom,Shall shroud a rebel in a deeper gloom.*****There was the sudden charge, the sharp recoilThat gathers breathing for a bloodier toil.The swinging blade that menaced many a throat,Full-clashed, resounding on the blade it smote.The victim's shrieks, fast-sinking as he bleeds,And war cries mingling with the tramp of steeds,Where swaying lines, with furious hate anew, Whirled high the blade, and shouted as they slew;While every mountain peak and forest rangWith answering echoes to the battle clangAnd deep'ning hours, devolving into night,Lulled into sleep the triumph, and the flight.Cynthia's pale beams a spectral radiance gave,Where youth and glory perished with the brave.Grim silence reigned where hope was won and lost,And battle reaped its bloody holocaust.
The day that breaks in light may sink in storms,And hope may crumble at the wrecks of loss.The utmost bounds of all things lie acrossThe ebb and flow of all that fate performs.
Enough! The violet blooms on Torno's steep;Thus, thus we laud its simple lovely grace.But hot blasts beat the petals down, and sweepIts ashes, reckless from its dwelling place—
Life gropes behind the curtains of its fate;The world, struck blind 'neath its own shadow-view,Beats its own drums to rappel and tatoo—Purple and ashes of its lorn estate.