SCENE-A Shepherd's Tent on a Plain
DAVID, under a spreading tree, plays on his harp and sings.
GREAT Lord of all things! Power divine!
Breathe on this erring heart of mine
Thy grace serene and pure,
Defend my frail, my erring youth,
And teach me this important truth,
The humble are secure!
Teach me to bless my lowly lot,
Confin'd to this paternal cot,
Remote from regal state!
Content to court the cooling glade,
Inhale the breeze, enjoy the shade,
And love my humble fate.
No anxious vigils here I keep,
No dreams of gold distract my sleep,
Nor lead my heart astray;
Nor blasting envy's tainted gale
Pollutes the pleasures of the vale,
To vex my harmless day.
Yon tower, which rears its head so high,
And bids defiance to the sky,
Invites the hostile winds:
Yon branching oak extending wide,
Provokes destruction by its pride,
And courts the fall it finds.
Then let me shun th' ambitious deed,
And all the dangerous paths which lead
To honours falsely won :
Lord! in thy sure protection blest,
Submissive will I ever rest,
And may thy will be done!
[He lays down his harp and rises.
Dav. Methinks this shepherd's life were dull and tasteless
Without the charm of soothing song or harp:
With it, not undelightful is the haunt
Of wood, or lonely grove, or russet plain,
Made vocal by the muse.
This daily solace of my cares, I sooth'd
The melancholy monarch, when he lay
Smit by the chill and spirit-quenching hand
Of black despair. God of my fathers, hear me !
Here I devote my harp, my verse, myself,
To thy blest service! gladly to proclaim
Glory to God on high, on earth good-will
To man; to pour my grateful soul before thee;
To sing thy power, thy wisdom, and thy love,
And ev'ry gracious attribute; to paint
The charms of heaven-born virtue! So shall I
(Though with long interval of worth) aspire
To imitate the work of saints above,
Of cherub and of seraphim. My heart,
My talents, all I am, and all I have,
Is thine, O Father! Gracious Lord, accept
The humble dedication! Offer'd gifts
Of slaughter'd bulls and goats sacrifical
Thou hast refus'd: but, lo, I come, O Lord!
To do thy will; the living sacrifice
Of an obedient heart I lay before thee:
This humble off'ring more shall please thee, Lord,
Than horned bullocks, ceremonial rites,
New moons, and sabbaths, passovers, and fasts!
Yet those I too will keep; but not in lieu
Of holiness substantial, inward worth;
As commutation cheap for pious deeds
And purity of life, but as the types
Of better things; as fair external signs
Of inward holiness and secret truth.
But see, my father, good old Jesse comes! To cheer the setting evening of whose life, Content, a simple shepherd here I dwell, Though Israel is in arms; and royal Saul, Encamp'd in yonder field, defies Philistia.
Jes. Blest be the gracious Power who gave my age
To boast a son like thee! Thou art the staff
Which props my bending years, and makes me bear
The heavy burden of declining age
With fond complacence. How unlike thy fate,
O venerable Eli! But two sons,
But only two to gild the dim remains
Of life's departing day, and bless thy age,
And both were curses to thee!
In all the cruel catalogue of pains
Humanity turns o'er, if there be one
So terrible to human tenderness
As an unnatural child!
Long may'st thou live, in years and honours rich:
To taste and to communicate the joys
The thousand fond endearing charities
Of tenderness domestic; nature's best
And loveliest gift, with which she well atones
The niggard boon of fortune.
Jes.
O! my son !
Of all the graces which adorn thy youth,
I, with a father's fondness, most commend
Thy tried humility. For though the seer
Pour'd on thy chosen head the sacred oil
In sign of future greatness, in sure pledge
Of highest dignity, yet here thou dwell'st
Content with toil, and careless of repose;
And (harder still for an ingenuous mind)
Content to be obscure; content to watch,
With careful eye, thine humble father's flock!
Oh earthly emblem of celestial things!
So Israel's shepherd watches o'er his fold:
The weak ones in his fost'ring bosom bears:
And gently leads, in his sustaining hand,
The feeble ones with young.
Dav.
Knowst thou, my father,
Aught from the field? for though so near the camp,
Though war's proud ensigns stream on yonder plain,
And all Philistia's swarming hosts encamp,
Oppos'd to royal Saul, beneath whose banners
My brothers lift the spear, I have not left
My fleecy charge, by thee committed to me,
To learn the various fortune of the war.
Jes. And wisely hast thou done. Thrice happy realm,
Who shall submit one day to his command
Who can so well obey! Obedience leads
To certain honours. Not the tow'ring wing
Of eagle-plum'd ambition mounts so surely
To fortune's highest summit as obedience.
[A distant sound of trumpets.
But why that sudden ardour, O my son?
That trumpet's sound (though so remote its voice
We hardly catch the echo as it dies)
Has rous'd the mantling crimson in thy cheek,
Kindled the martial spirit in thine eye;
And my young shepherd feels an hero's fire!
Dav. Thou hast not told the posture of the war;
And much my beating bosom pants to hear
Jes. Uncertain is the fortune of the field
I tremble for thy brothers, thus expos'd
To constant peril; nor for them alone
Does the quick feeling agonize my heart.
I feel for all!-I mourn that ling'ring war
Still hangs his banner o'er my native land,
Belov'd Jerusalem! O war! what art thou!
At once the proof and scourge of man's fall'n state i
After the brightest conquest, what appears
Of all thy glories! for the vanquish'd, chains!
For the proud victor, what? Alas! to reign
O'er desolated nations! a drear waste,
By one man's crime, by one man's lust of
power,
Unpeopled! Ravaged fields assume the place
Of smiling harvests, and uncultur'd plains
Succeed the fertile vineyard; barren waste
Deforms the spot once rich with luscious fig
And the fat olive.-Devastation reigns.
Here, rifled temples are the cavern'd dens
Of savage beasts, or haunt of birds obscene:
There, pop'lous cities blacken in the sun,
And, in the gen'ral wreck, proud palaces
Lie undistinguish'd, save by the dun smoke
Of recent conflagration. When the song
Of dear-bought joy, with many a triumph swell'd,
Salutes the victor's ear, and soothes his pride,
How is the grateful harmony profan'd
With the sad dissonance of virgins' cries,
Who mourn their brothers slain! of matrons hoar, Who clasp their wither'd hands, and fondly ask,
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