"Yea, my King,"
I began--"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring
From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by 150
brute:
In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears
fruit.
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree--how its stem trembled
first
Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst
The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn
Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect; yet more was 155
to learn,
E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we
slight,
When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight
Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and
branch
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall
stanch
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such 160
wine.
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine!
By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy
More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy.
Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast
done
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the 165
sun
Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests
efface,
Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace
The results of his past summer-prime--so, each ray of thy will,
Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill
Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too 170
give forth
A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the
North
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past!
But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last;
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height,
So with man--so his power and his beauty forever take 175
flight.
No! Again a long draft of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years!
Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's!
Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb--bid arise
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the
skies,
Let it mark where the great First King slumbers; whose fame 180
would ye know?
Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go
In great characters cut by the scribe--Such was Saul, so he did;
With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid--
For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to
amend,
In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they 185
shall spend
(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record
With the gold of the graver, Saul's story--the statesman's great word
Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's a-wave
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave:
So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part 190
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!"