The TALE of CUSHI. From II. Samuel, Chap. xviii. Mary Leapor Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T127827 p. 413 K101776.000 Leapor, Mrs. (Mary), 1722-1746. Poems upon several occasions: By Mrs. Leapor of Brackley in Northamptonshire. London printed: and sold by J. Roberts 1748 pp. 243-247. 15,[5],282p. ; 8⁰.

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The TALE of CUSHI . From II . Samuel , Chap. xviii . HOW fares my Son ? the trembling Monarch cry'd , Why wouldst thou ask ? afflicted Cush reply'd ; A Fate like his may all that hate thee feel , Whose Blood , alas ! has stain'd the guilty Steel . He fell beneath the Hand of David's Friend , But to my Story let my Lord attend . When the pale Morning shew'd her languid Face , And the dim Sun began his usual Race ; Whose sullen Orb receiv'd a crimson Dye , And Tempests hover'd in the frowning Sky , As tho' the Heavens wept a Mortal's Fate , And Nature trembl'd at domestick Hate ; Within the Shade of Ephraim's dusky Wood , In just Array the meeting Armies stood ; The frowning Hosts with equal Fury glow , And each to Death defy'd his meeting Foe ; All tender Thoughts were lost in horrid Rage , And with a Shout the charging Hosts engage : Then Clouds of Arrows hide the darken'd Sky , And hissing Lances lighten as they fly : Dreadful the Sight and horrid was the Cry . Here groan'd a Steed that felt its smarting Wound , And there a Soldier pinion'd to the Ground : At length , proud Israel began to fail , Our juster Cause cou'd o'er their Strength prevail ; The vanquish'd Army rais'd a fearful Cry , And thro' the Wood their mighty Numbers fly ; There horrid Brambles tore their Wounds anew , And thousand Deaths their flying Heels pursue : Then rag'd our Gen'ral thro' the dreadful Gloom , Pale Terror hover'd on his waving Plume ; From his known Spear the shrieking Numbers run , And from his Fury fled your conquer'd Son ; Grim Danger urg'd him on with fatal Speed , And thro' black Shades he lash'd the weary Steed : In the dark Center of this Forest stood A lofty Oak , which overlook'd the Wood . Thro' its thick Arms he ventur'd careless in , They springing caught him by the beauteous Chin ; His curling Locks among the Branches flew ; His Spirit fails him , and his Foes pursue ; Around in vain he cast a mournful Eye , And wish'd a Friend ; for none , alas ! was nigh : But hostile Shouts invade his frighted Ears , And soon beneath him shone a Grove of Spears : Now , Traitor , fall — our mighty Leader cries : ( While glowing Vengeance sparkl'd in his Eyes ) Then step'd a Captain of the loyal Band , And vainly strove to stay his fatal Hand . That cruel Arm impell'd the flying Dart , And the keen Weapon sunk within his Heart : Then those fair Cheeks resign'd their rosy Dye , Yet Life a Moment struggl'd in his Eye ; As from so fair a Mansion loth to fly , Till the red Torrent stain'd his throbbing Tide ; Then with a Groan the beauteous Rebel dy'd . Hold , — " stop thy Story , " — cries the weeping King , Thy horrid Tale has left a mortal Sting ; My Soul tho' practis'd in the Paths of Woe , Grows sick and staggers at this mighty Blow : From its cold Fountain Life forgets to run ; Oh Absalom — Oh Absalom , my Son , Eternal Shade has seal'd thy chearful Eyes ; And on the Ground thy breathless Beauty lies : Curst be the Hand that all my Hopes beguil'd , And left a Parent to lament his Child : Without a Tear let none his Story tell , But curse the Forest where my Darling fell : While these wan Eyes with lasting Sorrows run , Lost to the World , and Strangers to the Sun ; Let milder Songs attend his noon-tide Ray , For mine will best become the closing Day , While round my Lyre afflicted Fathers throng , And Orphans listen to the mournful Song .