Classic Poem

'Neath the palms, in Elah's valley,
Saul with all his thousands lay;
Israel's mightiest nobles, rally
Round their own anointed stay;
This, has been a battle-day
And the host, lie wearily
On the field of conflict won;
Where their slaughter'd foeman be,
Spear, and target stretched upon

Saul, within his purple tent
Seeks for rest, and seeks in vain,
Still, a voice of sad lament
Mingles with the trumpet strain
Sounding o'er that war-like plain;
And the spirit of the King
Darkens with a cloud of woe
Thicker, denser gathering
As the rapid moments flow

“Abner,” thus the monarch said;
God has left me desolate;
All my heart is cold, and dead,
Crushed amid my royal state;
Samuel, bid me ever mourn
Crown, and Kingdom from me rent
God is not a man to turn
Israel's strength can ne'er repent

Abner! is it day's declining
Brings this hour of darkness on?
As the evening sun is shining
Then I feel most sad & lone;
Lo! its beams are almost gone
How their kindled glories, burn
All along our tented field
Spear, and Helm their flash return,
Back, it beams from lance, and shield.

Palm, and Cedar catch the lustre
Shining on them bright, and sheen;
Where, those woods of olives cluster
Light has lit their fadeless green
Those far hills, are gem-like seen
Sparkling through the crimson'd air
All with roseate light embued,
Abner! never scene so fair
Smiled, on Monarch's solitude.

Once I could have smiled again,
Full of hope, and young and free,
Now its beauty turns to bane,
And my Spirit, wearily
Shrinks that sight of bliss to see
It hath no communion now
With a fair, and sunny sky
Nature's calm, and stormless brow,
Wakes in me no sympathy

O! methinks, were heaven scowling,
Were those green hills black and hoar
Were the winds and billows howling
Dashed against a sunless shore,
Darkly cheerless evermore;
I should feel, less full of woe,
Full of God-cursed misery
Than when breezes soft and low
Whisper round me peacefully;

Than when eve, and twilight meet;
Dawning star, and setting sun;
All that Earth has calm, and sweet,
Resting her bright plains upon;
Toil, and strife, and battle done;
Silent dews around me weeping;
Gleaming on the warrior's brow
The weary warrior, hushed and sleeping
By his conquered foe.

But I'll cease my bootless sighing;
Bid the Son of Jesse come;
Let his music, soft and dying,
Win my spirit from her gloom,
Call her exile sun-shine home;
He has many a sacred air,
Many a Song of Holiness
That perchance, may soothly bear
Even to me, one hour of bliss.