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THE LIBRARY OF 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 JUN. 21 1901 
 
 COPVRIGHT ENTRY 
 
 / n^c 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 Copyright, 1890, 
 By L. prang & CO. 
 
 Copyright, iSi,6 and 1901, 
 By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 ccoe c ccc 
 
 • c c t e c e 
 
IList of Sllustrattons* 
 
 ''•Since the King, O luy friend, for thy countenance sent?' 
 
 [Stanza I.] Frontispiece. 
 Said Abner, ''At last thou art conies [Stanza I.] 
 <' Thc]i a sunbeam, that burst through the tent- roof, showed 
 
 Saul:' [Stanza III.] 
 "U 'here the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's 
 
 bedr [Stanza V.] 
 " Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine 
 
 song^vhen hand grasps at hand.'" [Stanza VII.] 
 '' And then, the last song when the dead man is praised cu 
 
 his Journey.'' [Stanza VII.] 
 ' ' And then , the glad chaunt of the marriage." [Stanza VI I .] 
 " Then, the chorus intoned as the Levites go up to the altar." 
 
 [Stanza VII.] 
 
 iii 
 
" The hunt of the bear.'''' [Stanza IX.] 
 
 ** And the sleep in the dried river-cJiannel.'''' [Stanza IX.] 
 
 * * Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose 
 
 sword thou didst guard when he trusted thee forth 
 
 with the armies.'''' [Stanza IX.] 
 ' ' Tha7i by slow pallid sunsets iji autumn , ye watch from 
 
 the shore, at their sad level ^raze o''er the ocean — a 
 
 suti's slow decline.''"' [Stanza X.] 
 *' Then fancies grew rife which had co?ne long ago on the 
 
 pasture.'''' [Stanza XII.] 
 " Let me tell 07it my tale to its ending.'''' [Stanza XIV.] 
 " The dawn struggling with night.'''' [Stanza XIV.] 
 " He is Said, ye remember in glory.'''' [Stanza XV.] 
 ' ' That he sat, as 1 say, with my head Just above his vast 
 
 knees.'''' [Stanza XV.] 
 " / know not too well how /found my way home in the 
 
 night:' [Stanza XVIII.] 
 " As a runner beset by the populace famished for news.'''' 
 
 [Stanza XVIII.] 
 
 IV 
 
Entrotiuctors i^ote 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN ANGUS MacVANNEL, Ph.D. 
 Columbia University. 
 
 Embodying as it does the thoughts and feelings, the 
 inspirations and aspirations of men and women, litera- 
 ture, and especially poetic literature, furnishes one of the 
 best means at our command of acquiring that enrichment 
 and expansion of our nature which characterizes the rich, 
 and ripe, and rounded life. For in the serious study of 
 an author's work (of course an author whose work is 
 worthy of serious study), we reproduce within ourselves 
 that discipline through which his soul attained that sound- 
 ness, sweetness, and maturity we instinctively feel to be 
 its essential nature, and which in turn exerts a purifying 
 and quickening influence in the soul possessed of that 
 
 V 
 
l^ntrotiuctorg j^ote. 
 
 inner preparedness necessary to the reception of a life 
 felt to be higher than its own. 
 
 This preparedness of our inner nature is the inevitable 
 medium of the quickening touch of a higher life. It is 
 only through a waiting, listening sympathy that the inti- 
 mations of the spiritual life become revealed to us. In 
 its last analysis real knowledge is a matter of moral affin- 
 ity, and only through affinity of nature, partial it may be, 
 and as it too often is, may we come under the wholesome 
 influences of the author\s stronger imagination, respond 
 to the deeper pulsations of his larger heart, and thus ad- 
 mitted to the inner circle of a soul that has lived, aspired, 
 and suffered, we learn to feel the infinity of what before 
 were finite things, the beauty of the commonplace, and 
 gradually to fashion for ourselves a fairer object about 
 which to entwine our admirations, our hopes, and our 
 loves. 
 
 For life is the one source of life. This is the basic 
 principle of all education. Spiritual life cannot be kept 
 at home ; it must radiate, expand, go forth to meet its 
 like. But only the deeper nature can reach the deeper 
 nature of others: it is ever the greater lifting the less. 
 With so many sources of supply it would be strange in- 
 deed if the truly earnest soul should forever fail to meet 
 
 vi 
 
Entrotiuctoru i&ote. 
 
 some other that is in the line of its type, some teacher 
 that its nature needs. It is a hard matter to tell just how 
 much one owes to the teacher or author he has once 
 learned to reverence and love. EiTects in the spiritual 
 life are matters of soul-attitude and are to be measured 
 only as they are inwardly realized. Yet the one who has 
 made a sympathetic, sincere, patient study, and thereby 
 attained a vital apprehension of even one representative 
 poem of Wordsworth, Tennyson, or Browning, has com- 
 muned with the poet himself, and henceforth will never 
 quite forget his enrichment through another's life, the 
 mysterious refreshment of his spirit, the inspiration to 
 worthier living. 
 
 Browning, with Wordsworth and Tennyson, ever felt 
 himself to be a consecrated voice, indeed, one of God's 
 truth-tellers. This consciousness of his high calling was 
 the informing and fructifying ideal of his career as a man 
 and as a poet. His work as an author, giving to us a 
 souPs experience in its almost unsurpassed variety of reve- 
 lation, is the message from the deeper life of one who ever 
 strove to be true to himself and true to God. To him 
 the human soul with its faiths, and hopes, and loves, its 
 discouragements, failures, and its infinite wealth of weak- 
 ness even, is the thing of supreme interest. The religious 
 
 vii 
 
Entrotiuctori} |iote* 
 
 life as the fullest and freest development of man's nature 
 is for Browning the truly normal life. " Soul and God 
 stand sure ; " and the perfect life of the soul is the meas- 
 ure of the stature of the fulness of Christ. In his ear- 
 liest poem, " Pauline,'' published when the poet had just 
 reached his tvventy-tirst year, he thus addresses the 
 Saviour : 
 
 " O thou pale form ! 
 Oft have I stood by thee ; 
 Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee 
 In the damp night by weeping Olivet, 
 Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less, 
 Or dying with thee on the lonely cross. 
 Or witnessing thine outburst from the tomb." 
 
 Never for a moment did Browning give up his allegiance 
 to Christ. The poem " Saul,'' one of the noblest, if not 
 the noblest, of all his poems, is the one most intensely 
 religious. In no other poem is the claim of Christ as the 
 Way, the Truth, and the Life of the world more pro- 
 foundly or more beautifully asserted. Its climax, " To 
 see the Christ stand," is for Browning the highest word 
 of poetry, of religion, and of life. Few, if any, poems 
 in the language touch such depths of the religious life or 
 induce within us the conviction that the incarnation of 
 
 viii 
 
Entrotiuctorg J^otc. 
 
 Christ, besides being the central fact of time, is the cen- 
 tral fact of eternity as well. The poem is instinct with a 
 living passion, the effluence from the vital soul whose 
 experience it records. From beginning to end it is in- 
 formed by a mystical thought and faith. The form in 
 which the poem is set is beautiful. The oftener it is read 
 the more complete appears the harmony between its soul 
 and body. The music of each line speaks to the ear 
 with its own peculiar elfect ; but with a far deeper music 
 the poem speaks to the heart, and it is with this appeal 
 this brief introduction is concerned. 
 
 First of all, one or two interesting facts about its first 
 publication may be noted ; indeed, there is a special 
 interest in the genesis of the poem as showing the 
 gradual development of the thought in the poefs mind. 
 Part I , or the first nine sections of the poem as we now 
 have it, was printed under the same title in No. 7 of 
 "Bells and Pomegranates'' (1844); and again without 
 alteration in "Poems" of 1849. ^^^ ^^^'^^ ^^^^ P^^^ ^^'^ 
 have a picture of surpassing beauty : the lovely boy- 
 minstrel David by the side of the dark, maddened king. 
 His song is the joy of the hunter, the shepherd, and the 
 reaper ; of the Levites as they march to the temple ; of 
 the joys of the physical life — the mere living : 
 
 ix 
 
Introtiuctorg i&ote* 
 
 " Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste, 
 Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced, 
 Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock, 
 The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver 
 
 shock 
 Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear, 
 And the sultriness showing the lion is crouched in his lair. 
 And the meal, the rich dates yellowed with gold dust divine, 
 And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught 
 
 of wine. 
 And the sleep, in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell 
 That the water was wont to go warbling so swiftly and well. 
 How good is man's life, the mere living ! how fit to employ 
 All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy ! " 
 
 But a deeper note remained to be touched by the poet. 
 Whether he had come to the later insight or not it is 
 needless to inquire. If, indeed, he had attained the 
 higher vision of the poem, as we have it now, when 
 the first part was published, Browning at least seems to 
 have felt his inability to embody it in the language of 
 poetry. It would appear, rather, that the deeper signifi- 
 cance of the incident was only gradually revealed to the 
 poet through the more intimate contact with life which 
 succeeded the year 1844 In the poem as enlarged (1855) 
 
 X 
 
Introtiuctoru Jiotr. 
 
 by the second part, that is, section ten to the end, the 
 deeper note is sounded full and perfect. The good 
 that David has worked for Saul, the king, has reacted 
 on Browning's own nature, and has appeared in a new 
 light. Through it there have been revealed to the poet 
 depths of the divine nature and heights of human possi- 
 bility undreamt of before ; and through this story of a 
 human love he has attained to the vision of the everlast- 
 ing mercy — 
 
 "See the King — I would help him, but cannot, the wishes 
 fall through. 
 Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to 
 enrich, 
 
 To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — knowing 
 
 which, 
 I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me 
 
 now ! 
 Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst thou — 
 
 so wilt thou ! 
 So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost 
 
 crown — 
 And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down 
 One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, 
 Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue 
 
 with death ! 
 
 xi 
 
Entrotiuctoru i^ote. 
 
 As thy love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved 
 Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being beloved ! 
 He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand 
 
 the most weak, 
 'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for ! my flesh, that 
 
 I seek 
 In the Godhead ! I seek it and find it. O Saul it shall be 
 A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, 
 Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever ; a Hand like 
 
 this hand 
 Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the 
 
 Christ stand! " 
 
 Above were quoted a few lines from Browning's early 
 poem "Pauline/' Here in these grandly beautiful lines 
 of "Saul" we have the belief of the poet's maturer 
 years — his confession of faith in Jesus Christ as the 
 Way of God in the world. 
 
 Let us try to follow the thought of the poem a little 
 more closely. It is founded on the incident in ist Sam- 
 uel xvi., 23 : " And it came to pass when the evil spirit 
 from God was upon Saul, that David took an harp and 
 played with his hand : So Saul was refreshed, and was 
 well and the evil spirit departed from him." 
 
 The poem is a dramatic lyric, the boy David being the 
 
 xii 
 
Introtiuctorg i&ote, 
 
 speaker throughout. He is the embodiment of the 
 winning tenderness of youth and the perennial beauty 
 of innocence ; his whole being is instinct with the sweet 
 pure freshness of happy life ; heaven's own gentleness 
 and constancy is in his heart. He tells over, his voice 
 to his heart, a wonderful incident which happened to him 
 on the evening before — an incident whose imprint was 
 on his soul forever. The setting is briefly this : Abner, 
 SauPs cousin, sent to David, desiring him to play his 
 harp before Saul in the hope that through the ministry 
 of song and music the king might be freed from the evil 
 spirit. David, with the kindness of his understanding 
 heart, is glad to obey. He comes to the tent of the 
 melancholy king. Abner's welcome is indeed in the 
 heart's own language, tender, hopeful, loving: 
 
 " Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved ! God's child with His 
 dew 
 On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and 
 
 blue, 
 Just broken to twine round thy harp strings, as if no wild heat 
 Were now raging to torture the desert ! " 
 
 After a moment's uplifting of his soul in prayer to the 
 God of his fathers, David opened the fold-skirts of Saul's 
 
 xiii 
 
Eutrotiuctorg i^ote. 
 
 tent, entered, and was not afraid. Saul, like humanity 
 when it wanders far from God, no longer enjoys the daily 
 communions and the favorins; love of heaven. Because 
 of his own wilfulness his soul is no longer refreshed by 
 the rills of God's loving mercy; the divine guidance is 
 withdrawn and he suffers the pangs of spiritual loneli- 
 ness. There in his desert tent : 
 
 " He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out 
 
 wide 
 On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each 
 
 side ; 
 He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his 
 
 pangs 
 And awaiting his change, the king serpent all heavily hangs, 
 Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come 
 With the spring time — so agonized Saul, drear and stark, 
 
 blind and dumb." 
 
 To the gentle greeting, " Here is David thy servant," 
 Saul makes no answer. Untwining from his harp the 
 lilies, emblems of purity and modesty, plucked on the 
 way thither in the beautiful valley of Kedron, David be- 
 gins to play and sing the simple, heartfelt songs of the 
 lone shepherd lads, the home songs his own sheep 
 know so well ; songs in praise of the quiet loveliness 
 
 xiv 
 
IntrotiuctorB |iote. 
 
 and peace of nature, of the flock's instinctive obedience 
 to law ; how just as the stars, 
 
 '•'■ One after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star 
 
 Into the eve and the blue far above us — so blue and so far ! " 
 
 The sense of his nearness to and kinship with all nature 
 revealed through song and music suffused with love fills 
 his young, loving heart. The unity of all life is felt in 
 a new and living way. 
 
 " God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our 
 fear 
 To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here." 
 
 God's love is above his law, yet the love is seen in 
 the law of nature's instinctive obedience to His will. 
 
 And now the generous sympathy awakened in David's 
 heart inspires him to deeper and more human strains. 
 The song is now the help tune of the reapers, the tender 
 joys of living ; now of the reaper's wine-song, when 
 hand grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, 
 and great hearts expand and grow one in the sense of 
 this world's life. A still gentler, deeper note is found 
 among the strings, a note that speaks of pleading mercy, 
 and the deep joys of wedded life. Now the song is an 
 
 XV 
 
Entrotiuctoru j^otc* 
 
 elegy of the worthy dead, now the builder's chant, now 
 the chorus intoned as the Levites go up to the altar in 
 glory enthroned. 
 
 Here David paused for an instant. The waking mem- 
 ory of his former blessedness causes but a momentary 
 shudder to the king. The soul of Saul will not come 
 home. Wilfulness is the sin of Saul and he will not 
 submit to the will of God whose law is the life of all cre- 
 ated things. 
 
 Once more David bends to his harp and there issues 
 forth a still more wondrous music. His thoughts are of 
 Saul in his young manhood of wonder, of hope, of fulfil- 
 ment — symbol of all that was manly and strong and 
 joyous. David's song is the song of the vigorous life, 
 the music of human existence. Naturally it is the joy 
 of the physical life which first appeals to the sweet, 
 healthy nature of David. Browning never for a moment 
 lost sight of the truth that the physical should be the 
 healthy, worthy setting of the higher, spiritual life. The 
 physical is a means, not an end. Rut it must never be 
 forgotten that it is a means. Physical vitality should be 
 a great aid to spiritual vitality. In his deep and vital 
 appreciation of this truth Browning is one of the health- 
 fulest of poets. "All good things are ours, nor soul 
 
 xvi 
 
Entrotmctory J^ote* 
 
 helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul," exclaims 
 the aged Rabbi in the poet's psalm of life. The spiritual 
 is always the more, never the less. It is only when the 
 so-called natural is transformed and spiritualized that it 
 becomes truly natural. When the natural is made to 
 minister to the spiritual within us then and only then 
 have we the full liberty of the tree of life. 
 
 Saul feels somewhat the inspiration of David's heartfelt 
 appeal. The memory of a glorious past with all that it 
 had contained recalls him to a partial consciousness. 
 But it is little more than a memory as yet, and a memory 
 that is powerless to give SauPs life a meaning. 
 
 Again the harp responds to the spirit of David as he 
 turns to life's still deeper motives. Will not the trans- 
 mission of Saul's life in the lives of others avail? Will 
 not the overflow of his once divinely replenished life into 
 the lives which are to come after him sweeten his own 
 Hfe and inspire him to live? Even though death should 
 one day come to him, nevertheless he is one of those 
 ordained in God's Providence to the succession of 
 witnesses to his presence and of the continuity of the 
 spiritual life ; nor will heirs ever be wanting to the royal 
 line of those who are indeed kings and priests unto 
 God. 
 
 xvii 
 
3fntrotiurtor2 i^ote. 
 
 " In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears 
 fruit." 
 
 " Each deed thou hast done 
 Dies, revives, goes to work in the world." 
 
 '' Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill 
 Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too go 
 
 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." 
 
 '' He is Saul, ye remember in glory — ere error had bent 
 
 The broad brow from the daily communion ; and still, though 
 
 much spent 
 Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did 
 
 choose. 
 To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose." 
 
 Such words of solace and inspiration find a response in 
 the troubled spirit of Saul. A human impulse suffuses his 
 darkened heart. He places his rough hands on the golden 
 head of the youth who kneels beside him, and gazes on 
 the mystic light of the love-compelling face, intent to 
 peruse it, as men do a fiower. 
 
 "And oh, all my heart how it loved him!'- This is 
 the moment of high import in the unfolding life of David's 
 
 xviii 
 
Entrotmctorg ^ott. 
 
 soul — one of the great moments of soul-revelation when 
 the heart is brought by its response of love close to the 
 very heart of God. For David it is a moment of pro- 
 phetic insight in which he was to see the meaning of his 
 life and the way of God in the world — Christ, and Christ 
 alone. In this supreme moment of loving self-devotion 
 the pure soul of David assimilates the mystery of the 
 Incarnation, just as Pompilia, purest and loveliest of 
 Browning's women, in the great moment of her life ex- 
 claims that Christ was " likest God in being born.'" Both 
 could understand why Christ himself should say: "Let 
 not your heart be troubled ; ye believe in God, believe 
 also in me."" 
 
 David's heart is filled with a passionate love, a longing 
 not to be expressed to do for Saul what he would if only 
 he could. Neither the physical life, nor influence, nor 
 the thought of lives made better by its presence, can sat- 
 isfy, or give to the immortal soul the rest and peace it 
 craves. His thought is now of the purifying and redeem- 
 ing influence of love. The truest love, the only true love, 
 is the love that redeems. The good David would do 
 reacts on his own spirit, and there issues forth the yearn- 
 ing of prophetic inspiration. Song and harp are useless 
 now. The only voice that avails is the one that issues 
 
 xix 
 
Introtructorg i^ote. 
 
 from the soul filled with a deathless tenderness. David's 
 heart is flooded with the sweetness of love and self-renun- 
 ciation. Surely God himself is self-sacrificing. Love 
 must be the mingling of the human with the divine. 
 David can give to Saul no more. Whence, then, this 
 love of the human heart ? Whose look can satisfy the 
 yearning of the human face ? Surely God would give, 
 as he would if he only could, for the life which is failing, 
 a new, never-failing life. Will not God himself suffer for 
 all men ? 
 
 In this moment eternal in the life of David sight has 
 become vision and his love for Saul has been the medium 
 of the divine disclosure. On the very heights of his life 
 he has a vision of the Life that is higher. From the sight 
 of the face of Saul whom he loves, he has gained the 
 heavenly vision of his own divine Lover. In this vision 
 of the unseen and eternal Christ is revealed to David, 
 Christ of eternity and of time as well, the fairest among 
 ten thousand and the One altogether lovely — the One 
 alone who can satisfy and save the soul. 
 
 *' He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand 
 the most weak, 
 'Tis the weakness in strength that I cry for ! my flesh, that 
 I seek 
 
 XX 
 
Entrotmctoru J&otc. 
 
 In the Godhead ! I seek it and find it. O Saul, it shall be 
 A Face like my face that receives thee ; a Man like to me, 
 Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever ; a Hand like this 
 
 hand 
 Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the 
 
 Christ stand ! ' ' 
 
 Jowett, of Oxford, once said of the David of the 
 Psalms: "The Psalmist expresses with a fervor and 
 power greater perhaps than has ever been felt or found 
 utterance in any age or country, the longing of the soul 
 after God and the desire to live always in his presence.'" 
 This is the youth in whom Browning has embodied the 
 need, the trust, the longing of the soul after God. In the 
 gracious performance of duty David has met with God 
 and experienced in the inner recesses of the soul His 
 satisfying presence. In Christ is the soul-clasp, and the 
 heavenly alliance completed. For David, Christ has be- 
 come the " Great Word which makes all things new." 
 
 On his return home all Nature becomes responsive to 
 his inner life and adds her crowning witness. No longer 
 is there world-strangeness ; the Face has become familiar. 
 Nature seems glorified with spiritual presences of one 
 kin with his own nature, and speaks to him of hitherto 
 undreamt-of secrets. A new soul-attitude has been 
 
 xxi 
 
Introtmctorg Bote. 
 
 gained ; the world is seen now with the eyes of the soul. 
 Nature so transfigured reveals not power alone as before, 
 but love as well. Instead of the scorched desert of yes- 
 terday, there is the sweetness of the pasture lands ; and 
 everywhere whispers may be heard by his spirit now 
 attuned to the deeper harmony of Life. "E'en so, 
 it is so ! " 
 
 At the beginning of this introduction a few lines were 
 quoted from " Pauline," a confession of the poefs early 
 years. " SauP' is the record of Browning's middle life. 
 In his last poem, the "Reverie" to Asolando, is the 
 poet's final confession of his faith in God and Immortal 
 Love : 
 
 " From the first, Power was — I knew, 
 Life has made clear to me 
 That, strive but for closer view, 
 Love were as plain to see. 
 
 " When see? When there dawns a day, 
 If not on the homely earth, 
 Then yonder, worlds away, 
 Where the strange and new have birth. 
 And Power comes full in play." 
 
 John Angus MacVannel. 
 xxii 
 
I. 
 
 Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I 
 
 tell, ere thou speak, 
 Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " Then I wished 
 
 it, and did kiss his cheek. 
 And he, " Since the King, O my friend, for thy 
 
 countenance sent, 
 Neither drunken nor eaten have we ; nor until 
 
 from his tent 
 
Thou return with the joyful assurance the King 
 
 Hveth yet, 
 Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the 
 
 water be wet. 
 For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space 
 
 of three days, 
 Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of 
 
 prayer nor of praise, 
 To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended 
 
 their strife. 
 And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch 
 
 sinks back upon life. 
 
g>auU 
 
 II. 
 
 "Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's 
 
 child with his dew 
 On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still 
 
 living and blue 
 Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as 
 
 if no wild heat 
 Were now raging to torture the desert ! " 
 
^auU 
 
 III. 
 
 Then I, as was meet, 
 Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose 
 
 on my feet, 
 And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The 
 
 tent was unlooped ; 
 I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under 
 
 I stooped ; 
 Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch. 
 
 all withered and gone, 
 That extends to the second enclosure, I groped 
 
 my way on 
 Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then 
 
 once more I prayed, 
 And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was 
 
 not afraid 
 But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant! " And 
 
 no voice replied. 
 
 4 
 
g)auU 
 
 At the first I saw nought but the blackness ; 
 but soon I descried 
 
 A somethmg more black than the blackness — 
 the vast, the upright 
 
 Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and 
 slow into sight 
 
 Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest 
 of all. 
 
 Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent- 
 roof, showed Saul. 
 
g)auL 
 IV. 
 
 He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms 
 stretched out wide 
 
 On the great cross-support in the centre, that 
 goes to each side ; 
 
 He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, 
 caught in his pangs 
 
 And waiting his change, the king-serpent all 
 heavily hangs, 
 
 Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliver- 
 ance come 
 
 With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear 
 and stark, blind and dumb. 
 
V. 
 
 Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we 
 
 twine round its chords 
 Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide 
 
 — those sunbeams like swords ! 
 And I first played the tune all our sheep know, 
 
 as, one after one. 
 So docile they come to the pen-dooi till folding 
 
 be done. 
 They are white and untorn by the bushes, for 
 
 lo, they have fed 
 Where the long grasses stifle the water within 
 
 the stream's bed ; 
 And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star 
 
 follows star 
 Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue 
 
 and so far ! 
 
§)auU 
 Vi. 
 
 — Then the tune, for which quails on the corn- 
 
 land will each leave his mate 
 To fly after the player ; then, what makes the 
 
 crickets elate 
 Till for boldness they fight one another : and 
 
 then, what has weight 
 To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his 
 
 sand house — ■ 
 There are none such as he for a wonder, half 
 
 bird and half mouse ! 
 God made all the creatures and gave them our 
 
 love and our fear. 
 To give sign, we and they are his children, one 
 
 family here. 
 
» k'. . . 
 
 yk. 
 
 \^ 
 
 >W*«I» 
 
 v'-^ ^ 
 
 -mn^ 
 
VII. 
 
 Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, 
 their wine-song, when hand 
 
 Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friend- 
 ship, and great hearts expand 
 
 And grow one in the sense of this world's life. 
 — And then, the last song 
 
 When the dead man is praised on his journey — 
 " Bear, bear him along 
 
g>auL 
 
 With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets ! 
 
 Are balm seeds not here 
 To console us ? The land has none left such as 
 
 he on the bier. 
 Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! " — 
 
 And then, the glad chaunt 
 Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, 
 
 next, she whom we vaunt 
 As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — 
 
 And then, the great march 
 
 lO 
 
te>— * ■^.ti^iiVs.W 
 
g)auL 
 
 Wherein man runs to man to assist him and 
 buttress an arch 
 
 Nought can break ; who shall harm them, our 
 friends ? Then, the chorus intoned 
 
 As the Levites go up to the altar in glory en- 
 throned. 
 
 But I stopped here : for here in the darkness 
 Saul groaned. 
 
 II 
 
VIII. 
 
 And I paused, held my breath in such silence, 
 and listened apart ; 
 
 And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered : 
 and sparkles 'gan dart 
 
 From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once 
 with a start, 
 
 All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies coura- 
 geous at heart. 
 
 So the head : but the body still moved not, still 
 hung there erect. 
 
 And I bent once again to my playing, pursued 
 it unchecked, 
 
 As I sang, — 
 
 12 
 
IX. 
 
 " Oh, our manhood's pnme vigor ! No 
 spirit feels waste, 
 Not a muscle is stopped in its playing, nor sinew 
 
 unbraced. 
 Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from 
 
 rock up to rock, 
 The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, 
 
 the cool silver shock 
 Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt 
 
 of the bear, 
 And the sultriness showing the lion is couched 
 
 in his lair. 
 And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with 
 
 gold dust divine. 
 And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the 
 
 full draught of wine, 
 And the sleep in the dried river-channel where 
 bulrushes tell 
 
 13 
 
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly 
 
 and well. 
 How good is man's life, the mere living ! how 
 
 fit to employ 
 
 14 
 
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever 
 
 in joy ! 
 Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, 
 
 whose sword thou didst guard 
 When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for 
 
 glorious reward ? 
 Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, 
 
 held up as men sung 
 The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear 
 
 her faint tongue 
 Joining in while it could to the witness, * Let 
 
 one more attest, 
 I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, 
 
 and all was for best ? ' 
 Then they sung through their tears in strong 
 
 triumph, not much, but the rest. 
 And thy brothers, and help and the contest, the 
 
 working whence grew 
 Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the 
 
 spirit strained true : 
 
 15 
 
And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood 
 
 of wonder and hope, 
 Present promise and wealth of the future beyond 
 
 the eye's scope, — 
 Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch ; a people 
 
 is thine ; 
 And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on 
 
 one head combine ! 
 On one head, all the beauty and strength, love 
 
 and rage (like the throe 
 That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and 
 
 lets the gold go) 
 High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame 
 
 crowning them, — all 
 Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — 
 
 King Saul ! " 
 
 i6 
 
g)auU 
 X. 
 
 And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, 
 
 hand, harp and voice, 
 Each Ufting Saul's name out of sorrow, each 
 
 bidding rejoice 
 Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as 
 
 when, dare I say. 
 The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains 
 
 through its array. 
 And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — " Saul ! " 
 
 cried I, and stopped. 
 And waited the thing that should follow. Then 
 
 Saul, who hung propped 
 By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was 
 
 struck by his name. 
 Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons 
 
 goes right to the aim. 
 And some mountain, the last to withstand her, 
 
 that held (he alone, 
 
 17 
 
While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) 
 
 on a broad bust of stone 
 A year's snow bound about for a breast-plate, — 
 
 leaves, grasp of the sheet ? 
 Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously 
 
 down to his feet, 
 And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, 
 
 your mountain of old, 
 With his rents, the successive bequeathings of 
 
 ages untold — 
 Yes, each harm got in fighting your battles, 
 
 each furrow and scar 
 Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — 
 
 all hail, there they are ! 
 — Now again to be softened with verdure, again 
 
 hold the nest 
 Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to 
 
 the green on his crest 
 For their food in the ardors of summer. One 
 
 long shudder thrilled 
 i8 
 
g>auU 
 
 All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank 
 
 and was stilled 
 At the King's self left standing before me, re- 
 leased and aware. 
 What was gone, what remained ? All to trav- 
 erse 'twixt hope and despair; 
 Death was past, life not come : so he waited. 
 
 Awhile his right hand 
 Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant 
 
 forthwith to remand 
 To their place what new objects should enter : 
 
 'twas Saul as before. 
 I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor 
 
 was hurt any more 
 Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch 
 
 from the shore, 
 At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's 
 
 slow decline 
 Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'er- 
 lap and entwine 
 
 19 
 
g)auU 
 
 Base with base to knit strength more intensely 
 
 so, arm folded arm 
 O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 
 
 20 
 
^auU 
 
 XI. 
 
 What spell or what charm, 
 (For, awhile there was trouble within me,) what 
 
 next should I urge 
 To sustain him where song had restored him ? — 
 
 Song filled to the verge 
 His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all 
 
 that it yields 
 Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty : 
 
 beyond, on what fields. 
 Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to 
 
 brighten the eye 
 And bring blood to the lip, and commend them 
 
 the cup they put by ? 
 He saith, " It is good ; " still he drinks not : he 
 
 lets me praise life, 
 Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 
 
 21 
 
©aiiL 
 
 XII. 
 
 Then fancies grew rife 
 Which had come long ago on the pasture, when 
 
 round me the sheep 
 Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled 
 
 slow as in sleep ; 
 And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world 
 
 that might lie 
 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt 
 
 the hill and the sky : 
 And I laughed — " Since my days are ordained 
 
 to be passed with my flocks, 
 Let me people at least, with my fancies, the 
 
 plains and the rocks, 
 Dream the life I am never to mix with, and 
 
 image the show 
 Of mankind as they live in those fashions I 
 
 hardly shall know ! 
 
 22 
 
g>auL 
 
 Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the 
 
 courage that gains. 
 And the prudence that keeps what men strive 
 
 for." 
 
 And now these old trains 
 Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; 
 
 so, once more the string 
 Of my harp made response to my spirit, as 
 
 thus — 
 
 ^3 
 
fe>auU 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " 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 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 per- 
 fect : yet more was 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 
 24 
 
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 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 sun 
 Looking down on the earth, though clouds 
 
 spoil him, though tempests efface. 
 Can find nothing his own deed produced not, 
 
 must everywhere trace 
 
 25 
 
g>auL 
 
 The results of his past summer-prime, — so, 
 
 each ray of thy will, 
 Every flush of thy passion and prowess, long 
 
 over, shall thrill 
 Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till 
 
 they too 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 for- 
 ever take flight. 
 No ! Again a long draught of my soul-wine ! 
 
 Look forth o'er the years ! 
 Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; 
 
 begin with the seer's ! 
 
 26 
 
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 slum- 
 bers : whose fame 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 popu- 
 lace chid, — 
 
 For not half, they '11 affirm, is comprised there ! 
 Which fault to amend. 
 
 In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, 
 whereon they 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 
 27 
 
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 
 In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, thank 
 
 God that thou art ! " 
 
 28 
 
XIV. 
 
 And behold while I sang . . . but O Thou who 
 
 didst grant me that day, 
 And before it not seldom hast granted thy help 
 
 to essay, 
 Carry on and complete an adventure, — my 
 
 shield and my sword 
 In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy 
 
 word was my word, — 
 Still be with me, who then at the summit of 
 
 human endeavor 
 And scaling the highest, man's thought could, 
 
 gazed hopeless as ever 
 On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, 
 
 mighty to save, 
 Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — 
 
 God's throne from man's grave ! 
 Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice 
 
 to my heart 
 
 29 
 
Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels 
 last night I took part, 
 
 As this morning I gather the fragments, alone 
 with my sheep, 
 
 And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like 
 sleep ! 
 
 For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while 
 Hebron upheaves 
 
 The dawn struggling with night on his shoul- 
 der, and Kidron retrieves 
 
 Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 
 
 30 
 
XV. 
 
 I say then, — my song 
 While I sang thus, assurmg the monarch, and 
 
 ever more strong 
 Made a proffer of good to console him — he 
 
 slowly resumed 
 His old motions and habitudes kingly. The 
 
 right hand replumed 
 His black locks to their wonted composure, ad- 
 justed the swathes 
 Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that 
 
 his countenance bathes. 
 He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now 
 
 his loins as of yore, 
 And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the 
 
 clasp set before. 
 He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error 
 
 had bent 
 The broad brow from the daily communion ; 
 
 and still, though much spent 
 
 31 
 
Be the life and the bearing that front you, the 
 
 same, God did choose, 
 To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, 
 
 never quite lose. 
 So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed 
 
 by the pile 
 Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he 
 
 leaned there awhile. 
 And sat out my singing, — one arm round the 
 
 tent-prop, to raise 
 His bent head, and the other hung slack — till 
 
 I touched on the praise 
 I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man 
 
 patient there ; 
 And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then 
 
 first I was 'ware 
 That he sat, as I say, with my head just above 
 
 his vast knees 
 Which were thrust out on each side around me, 
 
 like oak roots which please 
 32 
 
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked 
 
 up to know 
 If the best I could do had brought solace : he 
 
 spoke not, but slow 
 Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid 
 
 it with care 
 Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my 
 
 brow : through my hair 
 The large fingers were pushed, and he bent 
 
 back my head, with kind power — 
 All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do 
 
 a flower. 
 Thus held he me there with his great eyes that 
 
 scrutinized mine — 
 And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but 
 
 where was the sign ? 
 I yearned — " Could I help thee, my father, in- 
 venting a bliss, 
 I would add, to that life of the past, both the 
 
 future and this ; 
 
 33 
 
I would give thee new life altogether, as good, 
 
 ages hence, 
 As this moment, — had love but the warrant, 
 
 love's heart to dispense ! " 
 
 34 
 
^auU 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then the truth came upon me. No harp more 
 
 — no song more ! out-broke 
 " I have gone the whole round of creation : I 
 
 saw and I spoke : 
 I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, 
 
 received in my brain 
 And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — 
 
 returned him again 
 His creation's approval or censure ; I spoke as 
 
 I saw : 
 I report, as a man may of God's work — all's 
 
 love, yet all 's law. 
 Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. 
 
 Each faculty tasked 
 To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a 
 
 dewdrop was asked, 
 Have I knowledge ? confounded it shrivels at 
 
 Wisdom laid bare. 
 
 35 
 
Have I forethought ? how purblind, how blank, 
 
 to the Infinite Care ! 
 Do I task any faculty highest, to image success ? 
 I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more 
 
 and no less, 
 In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God 
 
 is seen God 
 In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul 
 
 and the clod. 
 And thus looking within and around me, I ever 
 
 renew 
 (With that stoop of the soul which in bending 
 
 upraises it too) 
 The submission of man's nothing-perfect to 
 
 God's all-complete. 
 As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to 
 
 his feet. 
 Yet with all this abounding experience, this 
 
 deity known, 
 I shall dare to discover some province, some 
 
 gift of my own. 
 
 36 
 
There 's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to 
 
 hoodwink, 
 I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as 
 
 I think) 
 Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, 
 
 I worst 
 E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could 
 
 love if I durst ! 
 But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may 
 
 o'ertake 
 God's own speed in the one way of love : I 
 
 abstain for love's sake. 
 — What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther ? 
 
 when doors great and small, 
 Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should 
 
 the hundredth appall ? 
 In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the 
 
 greatest of all ? 
 Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ulti- 
 mate gift, 
 
 37 
 
That I doubt his own love can compete with it ? 
 
 Here, the parts shift ? 
 Here, the creature surpass the Creator — the 
 
 end, what Began ? 
 Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for 
 
 this man, 
 And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, 
 
 who yet alone can ? 
 Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare 
 
 will, much less power. 
 To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the 
 
 marvellous dower 
 Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? to 
 
 make such a soul, 
 Such a body, and then such an earth for in- 
 sphering the whole ? 
 And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm 
 
 tears attest). 
 These good things being given, to go on, and 
 
 give one more, the best ? 
 
 38 
 
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, main- 
 tain at the height 
 
 This perfection, — succeed with Ufe's dayspring, 
 death's minute of night ? 
 
 Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul 
 the mistake, 
 
 Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and 
 bid him awake 
 
 From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to 
 find himself set 
 
 Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a 
 new harmony yet 
 
 To be run, and continued, and ended — who 
 knows ? — or endure ! 
 
 The man taught enough by life's dream, of the 
 rest to make sure ; 
 
 By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning inten- 
 sified bliss. 
 
 And the next world's reward and repose, by the 
 
 struggles in this. 
 
 39 
 
XVII. 
 
 •* I believe it ! T is thou, God, that givest, t is I 
 
 who receive : 
 In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to 
 
 beUeve. 
 All 's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, as 
 
 prompt to m}" prayer 
 As I breathe out this breath, as I open these 
 
 arms to the air. 
 From thy will, stream the worlds, life and 
 
 nature, thy dread Sabaoth : 
 / win ? — the mere atoms despise me I Whv am 
 
 I not loth 
 To look that, even that in the face too ? WTiy 
 
 is it I dare 
 Think but lightly of such impuissance ? WTiat 
 
 stops my despair ? 
 This ; — 't is not what man Does which exalts 
 
 him, but what man Would do I 
 40 
 
See the King — I would help him but cannot, 
 
 the wishes fall through. 
 Could I wTestle to raise him from sorrow, grow 
 
 poor to enrich. 
 To fill up his life, star\*e my own out, I would — 
 
 knowing which. 
 I know that my 5er\-ice is perfect. Oh. speak 
 
 through me now I 
 Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst 
 
 thou — so wilt thou ! 
 So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, 
 
 uttermost crown — 
 And thy love fills infinitude whoUy, nor leave up 
 
 nor down 
 One spot for the creature to stand in I It is by 
 
 no breath, 
 Turn of eye. wave of hand, that salvation joins 
 
 issue with death I 
 As thv Love is discovered al::nii:hn". almi5:ht\" 
 
 be proved 
 
 41 
 
XVIIL 
 
 I know not too well how I found my way home 
 
 in the night. 
 There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left 
 
 and to right. 
 Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, 
 
 the aware : 
 I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as 
 
 strugglingly there, 
 As a runner beset by the populace famished for 
 
 news — 
 Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, 
 
 hell loosed with her crews ; 
 And the stars of night beat with emotion, and 
 
 tingled and shot 
 Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge : 
 
 but I fainted not, 
 For the Hand still impelled me at once and 
 
 supported, suppressed 
 
 43 
 
g)auL 
 
 All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and 
 
 holy behest. 
 Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth 
 
 sank to rest. 
 Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered 
 
 from earth — 
 Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's 
 
 tender birth ; 
 In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of 
 
 the hills ; 
 In the shuddering forests' held breath ; in the 
 
 sudden wind-thrills; 
 In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each 
 
 with eye sidling still 
 Though averted with wonder and dread ; in the 
 
 birds stiff and chill 
 That rose heavily, as I approached them, made 
 
 stupid with awe : 
 E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt 
 
 the new law. 
 
 L.ofC. 
 
&auL 
 
 The same stared in the white humid faces up- 
 turned by the flowers ; 
 
 The same worked in the heart of the cedar and 
 moved the vine-bowers : 
 
 And the httle brooks witnessing murmured, 
 persistent and low, 
 
 With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — 
 " E'en so, it is so ! " 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 45 
 
JUN 21 190