SAUL, DESERTED BY THE ALMIGHTY, CONSULTS THE WITCH
OF ENDOR, AND HIS FALL IS FORETOLD BY THE
SPIRIT OF THE DEAD PROPHET.

As o'er the earth a darkling cloud appears,
And grows in blackness till the scathing shaft
Comes forth with swelling thunder, so the cloud,
Black unto bursting with the wrath divine,
Hung o'er the head of Israel's erring King.
The light of heavenly faith from him was gone,
And life was full of dreary, dark despair.
Outstretched along the plains of Shunem lay
The army of the heathen Philistines--
A countless horde, at whose relentless head
Achish, the King of Gath, with stern acclaim
Breathed war against the Israelitish host.
Heedless of help from God, the wretched Saul
Had called his tribes together, and they swarmed
Along the plains of Gilboa, whence they saw
The mighty army of their heathen foe
Lie like a drowsy panther in its lair
With limbs all wakeful for the hungry leap.
"Enquire me of the Lord!" the King had said,
Communing with the doubtings of his heart.
But answer came not. Dreams were dumb and dark--
Unfathomed mysteries. No Urim spake;
And Prophets wore the silence of the grave.
So Saul, the King, disheartened and disguised,
Went forth at night. The rival armies lay
Sleeping beneath the darksome dome of Heaven,
And all was still, save when the ghostly wind
Swept o'er the plains with melancholy moan.
That night the shadowy shape of one long dead
Stood face-to-face with Saul, in lonely cave,
The Witch of Endor's haunt. Ah, me--the fall!
To degradation deep that man hath slid
Who 'gainst the Lord in stiff-necked folly strives
Choosing the path of cabalistic wiles--
The dark and turbid garniture of toads,
And philters rank of necromantic knaves--
Who spurns the hand which, by the light of Heaven,
Points clear and straight along the spacious road
Which angel feet have trod. Ah, me--the fall!
And sad the fate of him who shuns the truth:
Who, like the lonely Saul, eschews the light,
And leagues with darkness--listening for the voice
Of angels in abodes where devils dwell.
So the dead Prophet and the erring King,
By Heaven's own will, not by the witch's craft,
Confront each other in the dark retreat.
The dreamy shadow speaks: "Wherefore," it saith,
"Dost thou disquiet me!" And from the earth
Came the sepulchral tones, which, floating up,
Joined the weird meanings of the hollow wind,
And swept in ghostly cadences away
Like exiled souls in pain. And Saul replied;
"I'm sore distressed: Alas! the living God
"Averts His face and answers me no more;
"What"--and the pleading voice, in trembling tones
That might have won a stony heart to tears,
Asks of the shadowy shape--"What shall I do!"
And hollow voices seem to echo back
The anguish-freighted words--"What shall I do!"
'Twas hell's own mockery! The blistering heat--
Like burning blast, hot and invisible--
That scorched the heart of Saul, was but the breath
Of Satan, gloating o'er the moral death
Of him who, chosen of Jehovah, lay
A victim to those foul Satanic wiles
Which the sworn enemy of God had planned
In inmost hate. "I cannot scale the height
"Of Him 'gainst whom eternal enmity
"I've sworn," it seemed to say: "but--soothing thought!
"Deep in the hearts of mortals He hath named
"To do His bidding, will I thrust my darts,
"And through their wounds, as His ambassadors,
"The spirit bruise of Him who sent them--thus!"
And then again, as though his breaking heart
Were cleft with red-hot blade, the voice of Saul
Is heard in mortal anguish breathing out
The soul-subduing tones--"What shall I do?"
Dead silence intervenes; and then again
The spirit of the Prophet slowly speaks:
"To-morrow thou and thine," it faintly said,
"Shalt be with me; and Israel's mighty host
"Shall be the captives of the heathen foe!"
The fateful answer smites the listener low,
And utter darkness falls upon his life.