WATCHFIRES are blazing on hill and plain; The noonday light is restored again; There are shining arms in Raphaim's vale, And bright is the glitter of clanging mail. The Philistine hath fixed his encampment here; Afar stretch his lines of banner and spear, And his chariots of brass are ranged side by side, And his war steeds neigh loud in their trappings of pride. His tents are placed where the waters flow; The sun hath dried up the springs below, And Israel hath neither well nor pool, The rage of her soldier's thirst to cool. In the cave of Adullam King David lies, Overcome with the glare of the burning skies; And his lip is parched and his tongue is dry, But none can the grateful draught supply. Though a crownèd king, in that painful hour One flowing cup might have bought his power. What worth, in the fire of thirst, could be The purple pomp of his sovereignty? But no cooling cup from river or spring To relieve his want can his servants bring; And he cries: "Are there none in my train or state Will fetch me the water of Bethlehem gate?" Then three of his warriors, the "Mighty Three," The boast of the monarch's chivalry, Uprose in their strength, and their bucklers rang, As with eyes of flame on their steeds they sprang. On their steeds they sprang, and with spurs of speed Rushed forth in the strength of a noble deed, And dashed on the foe like the torrent flood, Till he floated away in a tide of blood. To the right — to the left — where their blue swords shine, Like autumn corn falls the Philistine; And sweeping along with the vengeance of fate, The "mighty" rush onward to Bethlehem gate. Through a bloody gap in the shattered array, To Bethlehem's gate they have hewn their way; Then backward they turn on the corse-covered plain, And charge through the foe to their monarch again. The King looks at the cup, but the crystal draught At a price too high for his want hath been bought; They urge him to drink, but he wets not his lip Though great is his need, he refuses to sip. But he pours it forth to Heaven's Majesty, He pours it forth to the Lord of the sky; 'T is a draught of death — 't is a cup blood-stained — 'T is a prize from man's suffering and agony gained. Should he taste of a cup that his "Mighty Three" Had obtained by their peril and jeopardy? Should he drink of their life? 'T was the thought of a King; And again he returned to his suffering. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUTH AND CUPID by ELIZABETH I NORTHERN FARMER, OLD STYLE by ALFRED TENNYSON POEM FOR PICTURE: TO A PORTRAIT BY EDWARD STEICHEN (RACHMANINOFF) by FRANK ANKENBRAND JR. THE TREE TOAD by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD TO THE HORSE BLACK EAGLE WHICH I RODE AT THE BATTLE ZAMORNA by EMILY JANE BRONTE CLEVEDON VERSES: 3. SECUTURUS by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |