VI

—­Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland 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.

VII

Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand
Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand 50
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
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
Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch
Naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends?—­Then, the chorus intoned
As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. 60
But I stopped here:  for here in the darkness Saul groaned.

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 courageous 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,—­

IX

“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, 70
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
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
All the heart and the soul and the senses for ever in joy! 
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose