The Death of Saul | Page 5

fateful answer smites the listener low,
And utter darkness

falls upon his life.
Episode the Fourth.
BATTLE OF GILBOA AND THE DEATH OF SAUL.
The morrow came: the bloody fray began.
The sun shone fierce and
hot upon the scene.
Lashed into fury like a raging sea
The wrestling
multitude for vantage strove
With deadly chivalry. On Gilboa's
mount
The King looked forth and watched the sanguine strife,

Clothed in the golden panoply of war.
Upon his brow the stately
monarch wore
The crown of all the tribes of Israel,
A-fire with
jewels flashing in the sun
In bitter mockery of his trampled heart.

Noble in mien, yet, with a sorrowing soul,
Anxious his gaze--for in
the sweltering surge
Three sons of Saul were battling with the rest;

His first-born, Jonathan; Abinadab;
And Melchi-shua--idols of his
life!
Around him like a hurricane of hail
The pinioned shafts with
aim unerring sped,
Bearing dark death upon their feathery wings.

The clashing sword its dismal carnage made
As foe met foe; and
flashing sparks out-flew
As blade crossed blade with murderous
intent.
The outcry rose--"They fly! they fly!" The King
Looked
down upon the fray with trembling heart.
The bloody stream along
the valley ran,
And chariots swept like eagles on the wind
On
deathly mission borne. The conflict fierce
Waxed fiercer--fiercer still;
the rain of gore
Wetted the soddened plain, and arrows flew

Thicker and faster through the darkening air.
The barbëd spear, flung
forth with stalwart arm,
Sped like a whirlwind on its flight of death.

Along the ranks the warrior's clarion call
Inspired to valorous life
the struggling hosts,
And shouts of victory from contending hordes

Blended with sorrowing moans of dying men.
"Thy sons, O King!" a
breathless herald cried,
Fresh from the carnage, bowing low his head,

Where Saul, heart-weary, watched the dreadful strife
On Gilboa's
height. "Thy sons, O mighty King!"

The herald cried, and sank upon
the ground
By haste exhausted. Saul, with fitful start,
Upraised the

prostrate messenger. "My sons!
"What of them? Speak!" he gasped,
with startled look,
"Dead!" moaned the herald, and an echo came,

As though deep down in some sepulchral vault
The word was spoken.
From the heart of Saul
That mournful echo came--so sad and low!

"Dead! dead! Ah, woe is me!" he sadly sighed.
"My sons--my best
beloved! Woe! Woe--alas!"
And as he spake, e'en while his head,
gold-crowned,
Bent low in pain beneath the crushing blow,
An
arrow from the foe his armour smote,
And pierced his breast, already
rent with grief.
Then stepped with hurried tread a servant forth,
And
plucked the arrow from its cruel feast,
Rending his robe to stanch the
purple stream.
"Heed not the wound!" exclaimed the King. "Too late!

"Where Heaven smites, men's blows are light indeed."
Then
bending o'er his breast his kingly head
He wept aloud: "Rejected of
the Lord;
"My sons among the slain; my valorous host
"In bondage
of the heathen--let me die!"
So sobbed the King, as down the bloody
plain
The chariots of the foe came thundering on;
And horsemen
cleft the air in hot array--
A mighty stream of chivalry and life!
The
Israelites had fled, and at their heels
The roaring tumult followed like
a storm
That rolls from world to world. And through the blast
Of
warfare came a weak and wailing voice
Moaning in utter
anguish--"Let me die!"
'Twas Saul the Anointed--Israel's fallen King:

Crushed 'neath the hand of an offended God!
"Lo!" cried the King,
and raised his tearful eyes,
"The Philistines are near, pierce thou my
breast!"
And, turning round, his kingly breast he bared,
Bidding his
armour-bearer thrust his sword
Hilt-deep into his heart. "Better to die

"By friendly hand," he cried, "than owe my death
"To yonder hated
victors. Quick! Thy sword!
"Thrust deep and quickly!" But the
faltering hand

That held the sword fell nerveless. "Mighty King!
"I
dare not!" spake the trembling armourer.
"Then by my own I die,"
exclaimed the King.
And as he spake he poised the glittering blade

Point upward from the earth, and moaning fell
Upon the thirsty steel.
The ruddy gush
Came spurting through the armour that he wore,

And steamed in misty vapour to the sky
In voiceless testimony to the

truth
Of words once spoken by the living God!
Aghast the faithful
armour-bearer stood.
"O, mighty King! I die with thee!" he said,

And, falling on his sword, the blood of both
Commingled, as from
ghastly wounds it ran
In trickling streamlets down Mount Gilboa's
side. (_i_)
As ebbs and flows the sea with troubled throb
'Twixt
shore and shore, or as the thistle-down
Halts in the eddies of the
summer wind
In trembling doubt, so do the flickering souls
Of
dying men float fearingly between
The earth and unseen worlds that
lie beyond.
So hung the life of Saul, whose bitter cup,
Still at his
lips, contained its bitterest dregs.
Prostrate he lay, by bloody sword
transfixed;
A corpse his pillow; arms extended out,
And body bent
in agony of pain,
The flame of life still fluttering at his heart
A
waning lamp. He heard the tumult swell.
Bondage was worse than
death. "They come! They come!"
He moaned. "Stand ye upon my
breast," he said,
To one, a stranger, lingering near the spot,
"And
force the gurgling stream back on my heart,
"To quench the life
within me. Quick! They come!"
The stranger did the cruel bidding.
(_j_) Hark!
"The King!" the foemen cry, and fiercely