Saul
Thou whose spell can raise the dead,Bid the Prophet's form appear."Samuel, raise thy buried head!King, behold the phantom Seer!"Earth yawned; he stood the centre of a cloud:Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.Death stood all glassy in his fixéd eye;His hand was withered, and his veins were dry;His foot, in bony whiteness, glittered there,Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,Like caverned winds, the hollow accents came.Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
"Why is my sleep disquieted?Who is he that calls the dead?Is it thou, O King? Behold,Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:Such are mine; and such shall beThine to-morrow, when with me:Ere the coming day is done,Such shalt thou be--such thy Son.Fare thee well, but for a day,Then we mix our mouldering clay.Thou--thy race, lie pale and low,Pierced by shafts of many a bow;And the falchion by thy sideTo thy heart thy hand shall guide:Crownless--breathless--headless fall,Son and Sire--the house of Saul!"
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