"Why is my sleep disquieted?

Who is he that calls the dead?

Is it thou, O King? Behold,

Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:[lo]

Such are mine; and such shall be

Thine to-morrow, when with me:

Ere the coming day is done,

Such shalt thou be—such thy Son.

Fare thee well, but for a day,

Then we mix our mouldering clay.

Thou—thy race, lie pale and low,

Pierced by shafts of many a bow;

And the falchion by thy side

To thy heart thy hand shall guide:

Crownless—breathless—headless fall,

Son and Sire—the house of Saul!"[297]

Seaham, Feb., 1815.