The flow'r of Israel withers on the plain;
How are the mighty on the mountains slain!
In Gath, ah! never this dishonour name,
Nor in the streets of Askelon proclaim;
Left the sad tidings of our country's woe
Cause triumph to the daughters of the foe,
May Heav'n, Gilboa, on thy heights ne'er pour
The dew refreshing, or the fruitful shower;
Ne'er may thy furrows give the golden seed,
Nor from thy folds the fleecy victims bleed:
There mighty men through fear their shields resign'd,
The shield of Saul was basely left behind.
Thy bow, O Jonathan, oft strew'd the plain.
With carcasses of valiant heroes slain;
Thy sword, O Saul, ne'er left its sheath in vain.
Blest pair! whom love with sweetest concord tied,
Whom glory join'd, and death cou'd not divide.
Dreadful thro' all the war they mov'd along,
Swift as the eagle, as the lion strong.
Weep, weep for Saul, ye maids whose bounty drest
Israel's fair daughters in the scarlet vest;
Who gave you gold and pearls your robes to deck,
And rings and jewels for your hands and neck.
Thy prowess, much lov'd Jonathan, prov'd vain;
How are the mighty on the mountains slain!
To me, O Jonathan, for ever dear,
Thy fate, alas! demands th' eternal tear:
Where can such faith, such piety be found?
Such pleasing converse with firm friendship bound?
Thy love was wondrous, soothing all my care,
Passing the fond affection of the fair.
How are the mighty on the mountains slain!
And all the instruments of battle vain!