Classic Poem

Now solemn evening drew her silent veil
O'er smiling nature, and the pious King
In supplication spent the sacred hour
With special fervour, making intercession
To the great sole dispenser of all good
To bless his son, and soon restore his health.
He scarce had ended prayer, when tidings came
That Jonadab beg'd audience. — The King
Eager to learn, thus instantly reply'd,
Go send him hither; welcome to my soul
Is Jonadab, my Amnon's social friend;
He doubtless comes to bring me news of him.
He enters. — Thus the King, — O Jonadab,
How does thy friend, my son, my Amnon now?
Amnon is well, O King, says Jonadab.
Is well! return'd the astonish'd King, is well!
'Tis but few hours since I myself him saw,
And saw him sick, — and say'st thou now he's well;
Thou know'st it not, which much I wonder at,
Because I know he loves thee; go now to him,
Go act a friendly part, go comfort him,
I tell thee he is sick. — Says Jonadab,
I can inform thee of the whole device
Of his pretended sickness. Then the King, —
Say'st thou pretended sickness? If there is
Dissimulation in my son, declare it;
I'll hear thee; — but take heed thou slander not,
Nor censure him unjustly, on thy life.
Amnon has not been sick, says Jonadab;
'Twas but a feint to lure his sister there
To his embraces, and he has succeeded.
What do I hear? reply'd the King; my son
Defil'd my daughter! Rising as he spoke,
With indignation flashing from his eyes:
Forth from his house he rush'd with hasty steps
To Amnon, who was unprepar'd to see
This unexpected visitant: The youth
Already self-convicted, now abash'd,
Ne'er ventur'd once to raise his down-cast eyes,
But speechless and confounded stood to hear
His sharp rebuke; when thus the King began: —
O son, thou shameful troubler of my house;
What hast thou done? Where are thy princely virtues
Inculcated so long? Now blasted all.
My elder-born, my first, my greatest joy,
Thus to debase thyself, thou that should'st be
The first in virtue, as the first in birth.
How can a Prince, himself debas'd with crimes,
Aspire to judge and punish wicked men?
In which of all my sons can I confide,
Now Amnon fails, whom I have faultless deem'd?
Thou bitter herb, — thou blemish of my honour;
How can I brook this foul disgrace? Must I
For ever bear confusion in my face,
And blush for thee, thou worse than enemy?
Amnon, no longer able to support
Such just reproof, in silence turn'd away,
And bursting into tears withdrew. — The King
Return'd with anger burning in his breast,
Mingled with sorrow for his daughter's wrongs;
My daughter! Oh! my daughter! he exclaim'd,
I would avenge thy wrongs; but oh! if I
Avenge my daughter, I destroy my son.
Then, all a father's tenderness prevail'd,
He wept, — his wrath subsided and he paus'd,
His own past failings rising in his mind;
His guilty love for Bathsheba — he sigh'd
Her murder'd husband; shudd'ring at the thought,
He saw no way to sooth the present ills
But suff'ring and forbearance. — Then the King,
As if the stroke came from the hand of Heav'n,
Fell prostrate to the earth, submitting thus:
Righteous art thou, O Lord, and all thy judgments just.
Amnon mean while, with piercing grief oppress'd,
Doubled by th' sore displeasure of the King,
Sat down and wept, while tears supply'd their streams.
Then rising, walk'd about with restless steps,
And thus in bitter agonies complain'd:
What am I now, and where? Of late I pin'd
In hopeless love, yet then I had some stay,
An heart-felt innocence, that could support
And cheer the drooping spirits. But alas!
Virtue has left me now, and I'm expos'd;
Expos'd to what? to what, alas! I know not;
'Tis Hell itself bursts in upon my soul,
And pours forth all its torments. — Terrors! Death!
O irrecoverable innocence!
Where art thou gone? for ever banish'd hence.
Arise ye thickest mists, ye darkest clouds
O'er-cast those twinkling stars. O sable night,
Wrap me in deepest shades, nor let a beam
Of penetrating light expose me more;
Darkness is fitted to the guilty mind
That shrinks and starts at ev'ry glimmering ray.
But oh! it is not in the pow'r of darkness
To hide the hated self from self; within
A sacred light perpetually shines,
Exposing ev'ry failure to the sense,
That vainly struggles to compose the mind,
And hush her sad inquietudes to peace.
But peace, the guest of innocence alone,
Takes an eternal leave when guilt intrudes,
And now has took eternal leave of me.
Ah! wretched me! Oh! curse on vicious friends!
Had Jonadab advis'd me virtuously,
I'd still been innocent, and Tamar pure;
My father still had smil'd on me with joy,
Nor had I trembled at his chiding frowns;
Absalom would have call'd me brother still,
But now he'll own me not. — This slight is just,
And this the least part of my punishment;
For inward guilt has yet severer pangs.
So wander'd he, complaining half the night,
Then sought for rest in sleep, but sought in vain:
Terrific dreams invade his wish'd repose;
He sleeps, starts, wakes; — then sleeps and starts again;
And rises soon, but not to meet the morn
With joy as heretofore; but to bewail
The loss of that sweet calm that ever dwells
Within the guiltless breast; and in the world
Dwells no one more entitled to the bliss
That waits on virtue, than was Amnon once:
He therefore more severely feels the loss.
For having tasted in its first degree
Its sov'reign blessedness. — Who'd then forsake
The peaceful path of virtue to pursue
Alluring vice through folly's labyrinth,
Grasping at shadows of felicity,
'Till overtaken by her evil train
Of shame, remorse, confusion, and despair?
Such evils now the hapless Amnon haunt,
While in th' avenging hand of Absalom
Death lurking lies. — Th' ambitious Prince, resolv'd
At once t' avenge his sister, and remove
An obstacle betwixt him and the crown,
With unremitting vigilance attends
The silent shades and unfrequented paths
Where Amnon used to walk, and meditate,
Hoping to meet defenceless and alone
The destin'd youth, and steal away his life.
But Amnon now as cautiously avoids
His dreaded presence; not with dread of death;
Such fear ne'er fill'd his unsuspicious breast;
But conscious guilt, that daunter of the soul,
That few can brave, deter'd the timid youth.
Two years within the breast of Absalom
Revenge in ambush lurk'd, while in his face
The mildest gentleness and sweetness play'd:
Thus secret burns the subterraneous fire,
While on earth's teeming surface gaily smiles
The verdant herbage strew'd with various flowers,
Till, bursting from beneath, the sulph'rous fumes
O'erturn the mountains, and the crumbling mould
Buries the blooming beauties that it bore:
So he unable longer to contain
The hidden rancour burning in his breast
Determin'd by some bold and desp'rate stroke
T' effect his purpose; and with Jonadab
Consulted, who thus readily advis'd: —
Assume the friend, — entice him to thine house;
The cred'lous youth will ne'er suspect a fraud.
Now is the time, now comes the yearly feast
When shepherds fleece their flocks: make him thy guest
With all thy brothers: when with mirth and wine
His heart's elate, how easy will it be
To give the final blow. With lowring brow
Revengeful Absalom the rash advice
Adopted, and a sullen gloom o'ercast
His lively features. Stern as that grim Lord
That through the forest takes his fearless way,
With high deportment Absalom retir'd.