David, but all the concealed hatred of Saul; and he lacks not the will, did he possess the power, to assume the sceptre which he considers as his birthright. But a cripple, "wrecked doubly on that fatal Gilboa," he is cut off from action, and left with a wounded spirit and 'a maimed body, to sit and brood, in impotent malevolence, over his affliction and his imaginary wrongs. The cheerful voices and the smiles of others, are oppressive to him, and he has left the banquet that he may not be a witness of happiness which he cannot enjoy. Alone, he contrasts his own condition with the regal splendors of the house of David, and, like the miserable daughter of Cecrops, beholds every thing through the medium of that envy which "cuncta magna facit." Hadad, who, at the banquet,

"had refreshed

His cup so oft, and spiced it so with vaunts
Of Judah's glory (subtler than the wine
To work on Benjamin),"

now joins him in expectation that his drink or his passion will disclose his inmost thoughts. Privy to the ambitious desires of Absalom, Hadad has a double purpose in coming to Mephibosheth, to learn something respecting the suc cession to the throne; and, by exacerbating his feelings, to make him subserve the designs of Absalom.

Nothing can be more artful and insidious than the address of Hadad to the prince. His counsels are admirably calculated to arouse ambition, awaken confidence, and inspire hatred against the king. Finding his advice fail to excite the prince, he endeavors to move him by his own example, and states his intention to free himself from the thraldom of a hostage, in which character he was held. Mephibosheth is wary, and does not commit himself in any thing; but, in vituperating the luxury of the court, he passes adroitly to Absalom, and, while doing so, sees through the disguised purposes of Hadad, and flings from him in disdain. Absalom now comes in, and learns the subject of their conference, and is exasperated at some hints which Mephibosheth had used respecting Solomon. Love struggles in his breast when he recounts his father's kindness; and he is disposed to attribute any seeming neglect, to the plotting of Joab and Nathan the seer. We discover the tumultuous passions

of his breast when Hadad mentions the homage paid to Solomon by the envoys, and describes the workings of his father's face, when the old Chaldee lifted up his hands in wonder at the answers of the son of Bathsheba. Their conference is broken off by the appearance of Nathan. The seer, wondering that Hadad should always avoid him, exclaims,

"Nath. Why doth that Syrian shun me? Always thus,

He, like a guilty thing, avoids my presence,
Where'er I find him, and I find him ever

Closely conferring, whether in the streets,
Or gates, or chief resorts. If I appear,

His bright, mysterious eye, seems conscious of me,
And soon he vanishes. I touched him once-

He turned as he had felt a scorpion; fear
And loathing glared from his enkindled orbs,
And paleness overspread his face, like one

Who smothers mortal pain. Fierce, subtle, dark,
Designing and inscrutable, he walks

Among us like an evil angel."

We are reminded here of the touch of Ithuriel's spear, in Milton, which causes Satan to assume his real shape, when he sat near Eve in the shape of a toad.

The second scene represents King David and the seer conferring about the proposal of Hadad for the hand of Tamar. The prophet dissuades the marriage, for reasons which approve both his piety and his statesmanship; but, when the king is so blinded to the character of his son, that the prudence of man is insufficient to produce conviction, heaven itself interposes, and the spirit of prophecy rests upon the seer. The king is ready to submit to the will of heaven, but, in the unsuspecting nature of a father and an old soldier, is slow to entertain distrust. The hour of sacrifice having arrived, breaks off the conference; and the prophet gives him his blessing and retires.

"K. David. Hath she escaped Syria's foul rites, to yield,
Even in the precincts of the sanctuary,

To an uncircumcised, the heart where faith
Glowed like the burning censer!

Of crafty policy! It wears a face

O, beware

Too like ambition. Geshur cleaves to him;

League but Damascus,—with his power in Israel,—
And Absalom may bend his father's bow."

"Nath. You know not what you utter.
Woe to the hour of his anointing!-King!
A dreadful vintage shall be trod that day,
With purple garments! Lo! the noise of arms,
Chariots, and horsemen, and the shout of nations,
Are in my ears!-the wail of Zion !-Hark!
A cry, a cry, comes from her royal towers,

Of bitter anguish, like a monarch's voice!

My son my People! Woe, Alas!

1

"K. David. What! hath he not, since fourteen summers old,
Served with me in the field, slept in my tent,

Hungered and suffered, watched and toiled with me;
Shed his young blood by veteran captains' sides,
And wielded those bright weapons you dispraise
Like a true son and a soldier?"

The third scene introduces us to Tamar, in the garden, by the side of a fountain. She sits musing, while her pure thoughts go up to heaven, like the exhalations of the flowers around her, until she is aroused from her reverie, by the sad strains of music, which always prelude the coming of her lover. Their first interview is so beautiful, that we extract it.

"Tamar. How aromatic evening grows! the flowers
And spicy shrubs exhale like onycha;

Spikenard and henna emulate in sweets.

Blest hour! which He who fashioned it so fair,

So softly glowing, so contemplative,

Hath set and sanctified to look on man.

And lo! the smoke of evening sacrifice
Ascends from out the tabernacle. Heaven,
Accept the expiation, and forgive

This days offences! Ha! the wonted strain,
Precursor of his coming! Whence can this,-

It seems to flow from some unearthly hand.

Enter Hadad.

"Had. Does beauteous Tamar view, in this clear fount,
Herself or heaven?

Tam. Nay, Hadad, tell me whence

Those sad mysterious sounds.

Had. What sounds, dear Princess?

Tam. Surely thou knowest; and now I almost think
Some spiritual creature waits on thee.

Had. I heard no sounds, but such as evening sends

Up from the city, to these quiet shades;

A blended murmur, sweetly harmonizing

With flowing fountains, feathered minstrels,
And voices from the hills.

Tam. The sounds I mean

Floated like mournful music round my head,
From unseen fingers.

Had. When?

Tam. Now, as thou camest.

Had. 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought
To ecstasy; or else thy grandsire's harp,
Resounding from his tower at eventide.
I've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones,
Till the broad moon, that rose o'er Olivet,
Stood listening in the zeinth; yea, have deemed
Viols and heavenly voices answered him."

The conversation proceeds, and Hadad endeavors to shake her faith by the most artful insinuations. Under the disguise of a compliment, in which he would regard her as the favorite of a naiad, he makes his introduction to a comparison between the Syrian and Jewish theology and worship. Trusting to the tender sympathies of the female heart, he indirectly impugns the benevolence of God, in permitting the introduction of evil; openly assails his punishment of man at the fall and the deluge, as unreasonable; and endeavours to awaken emotions of horror, by contrasting the bloody sacrifices of the temple with the fruits and flowers of the Syrian shrine.

"Had. Were we in Syria, I might say

The Naiad of the fount, or some sweet nymph,
The goddess of these shades, rejoiced in thee,
And gave thee salutations; but I fear

Judah would call me infidel to Moses.

Had.

Delicious to behold the world at rest,

Meek labor wipes his brow, and intermits

The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot;
Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks, and, hark,
What merry strains they send from Olivet!
The jar of life is still; the city speaks
In gentle murmurs; voices chime with lutes
Waked in the streets and gardens; loving pairs
Eye the red west in one another's arms;
And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields
A glimpse of happiness, which He, who formed
Earth and the stars, had power to make eternal.

Tam. Ah Hadad, meanest thou to reproach the Friend
Who gave so much, because he gave not all?

Had. Is this benevolence?—

Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble me;
For I was tutored in a brighter faith.

Our Syrians deem each lucid fount and stream,
Forest and mountain, glade and bosky dell,
Peopled with kind divinities, the friends

Of man, a spiritual race, allied

To him by many sympathies, who seek

His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts,

Cool with their waves, and fan him with their airs.

O'er them the Spirit of the Universe,

Or Soul of Nature, circumfuses all

With mild, benevolent, and sunlike radiance;
Pervading, warming, vivifying earth,

As spirit does the body, till green herbs,
And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars rise;
And shooting stellar influence through her caves,
Whence minerals and gems imbibe their lustre.
Tam. Dreams, Hadad, empty dreams.

Had. These deities,

They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites,
Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines
With nature's bounties, fruits and fragrant flowers.
Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks-

Tam. Cast not reproach upon the holy altar.

Had. I meant not to displease, love; but my soul
Revolts, because I think thy gentle nature
Shudders at him and yonder bloody rites.