Might Naomi not often glean with Ruth,
And thus give time a double joy and worth?
It takes the each and all from every clime
To cull auspiciously the seeds of truth;
To win anew a Paradise for earth

And reap in joy the harvest-truth sublime.
LOWELL COURIER.

Song of Saul Before His Last Battle WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the

sword

Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord,
Heed not the corpse, though a king's, in your path,
Bury your steel in the bosom of Gath!

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,

Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe,
Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet!
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet.

Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart!
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day.

LORD BYRON.

The Field of Gilboa

THE 'HE sun of the morning looked forth from his throne

And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying, For the yell and the strife, like the thunder, had flown, And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.

And there lay the husband that lately was prest
To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddy,
But the claws of the eagle were fixed in his breast
And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody.

And there lay the son of the widowed and sad, Who yesterday went from her dwelling forever, Now the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had

On the delicate limbs that had ceased not to quiver.

And there came the daughter, a delicate child,

To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary, And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory.

And there came the consort that struggled in vain

To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her, And there came a mother that sunk 'mid the slain To weep o'er the last human stay that was left her.

Oh! bloody Gilboa, a curse ever lie

Where the king and his people were slaughtered together,

May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay and thy forests to wither. WILLIAM KNOX.

Kynge David, Hys Lamente Over the
Bodyes of Kynge Saul of Israel
and His Sonne Jonathan

The beautye of the lande ys slayne,
How lowlye are the myghte layne!

I

NOW lette us shede the brinie teare,

And lette us heave the pityinge moane!—
But whyle we strowe the willowe biere

For Ysrael's pryde to lye upon;

Oh! lette not Gath the tidynges heare

Oh, tell yt not yn Askalon,

Lest every wayling sounde of ours
Rayse triumpe-shoutes in heathen bowers!

II

May raine or dew droppe neuer lyghte
Upon thy mountaynes, Gilboa!

May offerynge flame ne'er crowne thyne heighte
In deepe of nyght or noon of daye!
Where worsted yn unholie fyghte

The myghtie flung hys shielde away;
Cast meanlie on the foulèd greene,
As he had ne'er anoynted beene!

III

From battel fyelde they turned them ne'er
With bowe unstrunge, or blade untryede-
Pleasant They Were Yn Life, and Fayre
Nor Yette Did Deathe Theyre Loues Divide-
Theyre nervous armes mighte scathelesse dare
To bearde the lyon yn hys pryde;

Yette theyre lyghte limbs made fleeter speede
Than eagles stoopynge o'er the meade.

IV

Ye daughteres of the lande, deplore,

For Saule the bounteous and the bolde, Whose kynglie hande hath founde you store Of crimson geare and clothe of golde.. Alack! that hande can giue noe more,

That worthie harte ys stille and colde; Unknown amongst the deade and dyinge, The mightie with the mean are lying!

V

Ah! Jonathan! my brother! lorne

And friendless I must looke to be!.. That harte whose woe thou ofte hast borne Is sore and strickene nowe for thee. Young brydegroome's loue on brydal morne, Oh! yt was lyghte to thyne for me.

Thy tymelesse lotte I now must playne,
Even on thyne owne high places slayne!
How lowlie now the mightie are!
How still the weapons of the war.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

David's Lament

LET the voice of the mourner be heard on the moun

tain,

And woe breathe her sigh over Besor's blue wave; Upon Gilboa's hill there is opened a fountain,

And its fast-flowing stream is the blood of the brave!

Oh! dry be that hill from the rains of the morning,
On its brow may no dew of the evening fall,
But the warriors of Israel, from conquest returning,
View herbless and withered the death-place of Saul!
From the borders of Judah let gladness be banished,
Ye maidens of Israel, be deep in your woe;
For the pride of the mighty in battle is vanished,

The chief of the sword, and the lord of the bow. And long shall the chieftains of Gilead deplore them, And mourn the dark fate of the high and the brave; The song of the minstrel will oft be breathed o'er them,

And holy the tear that shall fall on their grave. ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

David and Jonathan

N the brow of Gilboa is war's bloody stain,

ON

The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain;
O publish it not in proud Askelon's street,
Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet,

For how are the mighty fallen!

O mount of Gilboa, no dew shalt thou see,
Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee;
For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead,
Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed!

O how are the mighty fallen!

Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave!
What breast will now pity, what arm will now save?
O my brother! my brother! this heart bleeds for thee,
For thou wert a friend and a brother to me!

Ah, how are the mighty fallen!
LUCRETIA DAVIDSON.

The Lamentation of David Over Saul and

Jonathan His Son

II. Sam. i: 17.

I

THY beauty, Israel, is gone

Slain in the places high is he;

The mighty now are overthrown;
O thus how cometh it to be!

Let not this news their streets throughout
In Gath or Askalon be told;

For fear Philistia's daughters flout,

Lest vaunt the uncircumcised should.

II

On you, hereafter, let no dew,

You mountains of Gilboa, fall;

Let there be neither showers on you

Nor fields that breed an offering shall.
For there with shame away was thrown
The target of the strong (alas),

The shield of Saul, e'en as of one,
That ne'er with oil anointed was.