Classic Poem

Thy beauty, Israel, is fled,
Sunk to the dead.
How are the valiant fall'n! the slain
Thy mountains stain.
O let it not in Gath be known,
Nor in the streets of Ascalon!

Lest that sad story should excite
Their dire delight:
Lest in the torrent of our woe
Their pleasure flow:
Lest their triumphant daughters ring
Their cymbals, and curs'd paeans sing.

You hills of Gilboa, never may
You off'rings pay:
No morning dew, nor fruitful showers,
Clothe you with flowers:
Saul and his arms there made a spoil,
As if untouch'd with sacred oil.

The bow of noble Jonathan
Great battles wan;
His arrows on the mighty fed,
With slaughter red.
Saul never rais'd his arm in vain,
His sword still glutted with the slain.

How lovely! O how pleasant! when
They liv'd with men!
Than eagles swifter, stronger far
Than lions are:
Whom love in life so strongly tied,
The stroke of death could not divide.

Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul;
Lament his fall:
Who fed you with the earth's increase,
And crown'd with peace:
With robes of Tyrian purple deck'd,
And gems which sparkling light reflect.

How are thy worthies by the sword
Of war devour'd!
O Jonathan, the better part
Of my torn heart!
The savage rocks have drunk thy blood:
My brother! O how kind! how good!

Thy love was great; O never more
To man, man bore!
No woman, when most passionate,
Lov'd at that rate!
How are the mighty fall'n in fight!
They and their glory set in night!