Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A STORY OF KING DAVID, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A STORY OF KING DAVID, by                    
First Line: Twas the harvest-time, and the warrior king
Last Line: Could a king do more, or a hero less?
Subject(s): Bible; Courts & Courtiers; David (d. 962 B.c.); Enemies; Sickness; Illness


'Twas the harvest-time, and the warrior King
In the cave of Adullam lay,
Weary of battles, and languishing
With the pitiless heat of day;
Pale he lay, as one who had died,
And his foes were around him on every side.

Through a storm-rent crevice he bent his gaze
Upon Rephaim's vale below,
And watched in the quivering noontide-blaze
The tents of the heathen glow;
For the foemen's garrisons held each place,
City or hamlet, that eye could trace.

A burning fever consumed the King,
And he panted with keen desire
For a fresh, cool draught from some mountain spring,
While his brain seemed all on fire;
But rivulet near him or fount was none:—
They had been lapped up by the fierce, hot sun.

Then he thought how his enemies slaked their thirst
At the well by Bethlehem's gate,
And a cry from his kingly bosom burst,
As he crouched there, desolate;
"Oh! the cool, pure waters of Bethlehem,
My parched lips' agony pines for them!

Is it some dream that I panting lie
Like a woodland beast at bay?
Israel's anointed King, am I
To perish of thirst this day?
Oh! that some help-mate a draught would give
Of Bethlehem's waters that I might live!"

Adino the Eznite, a stalwart chief,
And warrior-comrades twain,
Heard the sick monarch's low cries of grief.
And vowed to assuage his pain;
But for three, I ween, 'twas a hopeless task
To seek the boon that the King did ask.

Their fleet, strong coursers flew like wind,
Their swords like lightning flashed,
As onward, to jeopardy seeming blind,
Like angels of death they dashed,
Till at Bethlehem's gate, after bloody deeds,
They reeled in their saddles and reined their steeds.

Ice-cold water they drew from the well,
And soon by the same red track,
While arrows and javelins rain-like fell,
Rode gashed and gore-stained back:
Then they sought the cavern, and cried, "O King,
Water from Bethlehem's well we bring."

Dizzy and feeble the King stood up
To honour the mighty Three,
And with trembling fingers upraised the cup,
While its waters sparkled free;
Still he would not sip one drop, but poured
The blood-bought life-draught to the Lord.

And he spake: "O Lord! be it far from me
To do this sinful thing;
This cup is the blood of these mighty Three
Who were stricken to save their King!"
So he would not drink in his sore distress—
Could a king do more, or a hero less?





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