The Death of Saul and other Eisteddfod Prize Poems and Miscellaneous Verses. J. C. Manning

the Third

      SAUL, DESERTED BY THE ALMIGHTY, CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR, AND HIS FALL IS FORETOLD BY THE SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PROPHET.

      As o'er the earth a darkling cloud appears,

       And grows in blackness till the scathing shaft

       Comes forth with swelling thunder, so the cloud,

       Black unto bursting with the wrath divine,

       Hung o'er the head of Israel's erring King.

       The light of heavenly faith from him was gone,

       And life was full of dreary, dark despair.

       Outstretched along the plains of Shunem lay

       The army of the heathen Philistines—(f) A countless horde, at whose relentless head Achish, the King of Gath, with stern acclaim Breathed war against the Israelitish host. Heedless of help from God, the wretched Saul Had called his tribes together, and they swarmed Along the plains of Gilboa, whence they saw The mighty army of their heathen foe Lie like a drowsy panther in its lair With limbs all wakeful for the hungry leap. "Enquire me of the Lord!" the King had said, Communing with the doubtings of his heart. But answer came not. Dreams were dumb and dark— Unfathomed mysteries. No Urim spake; And Prophets wore the silence of the grave. So Saul, the King, disheartened and disguised, Went forth at night.(g) The rival armies lay Sleeping beneath the darksome dome of Heaven, And all was still, save when the ghostly wind Swept o'er the plains with melancholy moan. That night the shadowy shape of one long dead Stood face-to-face with Saul, in lonely cave, The Witch of Endor's haunt. Ah, me—the fall! To degradation deep that man hath slid Who 'gainst the Lord in stiff-necked folly strives Choosing the path of cabalistic wiles— The dark and turbid garniture of toads, And philters rank of necromantic knaves— Who spurns the hand which, by the light of Heaven, Points clear and straight along the spacious road Which angel feet have trod. Ah, me—the fall! And sad the fate of him who shuns the truth: Who, like the lonely Saul, eschews the light, And leagues with darkness—listening for the voice Of angels in abodes where devils dwell. So the dead Prophet and the erring King, By Heaven's own will, not by the witch's craft, Confront each other in the dark retreat. The dreamy shadow speaks: "Wherefore," it saith, "Dost thou disquiet me!" (h) And from the earth Came the sepulchral tones, which, floating up, Joined the weird meanings of the hollow wind, And swept in ghostly cadences away Like exiled souls in pain. And Saul replied; "I'm sore distressed: Alas! the living God "Averts His face and answers me no more; "What"—and the pleading voice, in trembling tones That might have won a stony heart to tears, Asks of the shadowy shape—"What shall I do!" And hollow voices seem to echo back The anguish-freighted words—"What shall I do!" 'Twas hell's own mockery! The blistering heat— Like burning blast, hot and invisible— That scorched the heart of Saul, was but the breath Of Satan, gloating o'er the moral death Of him who, chosen of Jehovah, lay A victim to those foul Satanic wiles Which the sworn enemy of God had planned In inmost hate. "I cannot scale the height "Of Him 'gainst whom eternal enmity "I've sworn," it seemed to say: "but—soothing thought! "Deep in the hearts of mortals He hath named "To do His bidding, will I thrust my darts, "And through their wounds, as His ambassadors, "The spirit bruise of Him who sent them—thus!" And then again, as though his breaking heart Were cleft with red-hot blade, the voice of Saul Is heard in mortal anguish breathing out The soul-subduing tones—"What shall I do?" Dead silence intervenes; and then again The spirit of the Prophet slowly speaks: "To-morrow thou and thine," it faintly said, "Shalt be with me; and Israel's mighty host "Shall be the captives of the heathen foe!" The 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