Thou whose spell can raise the dead, <br />Bid the prophet's form appear. <br />'Samuel, raise thy buried head! <br />King, behold the phantom seer!' <br /> <br />Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: <br />Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. <br />Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye: <br />His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry; <br />His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there, <br />Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; <br />From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, <br />Like cavern'd winds, the hollow acccents came. <br />Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, <br />At once, and blasted by the thunderstroke. <br /> <br />'Why is my sleep disquieted? <br />Who is he that calls the dead? <br />Is it thou, O King? Behold, <br />Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: <br />Such are mine; and such shall be <br />Thine to-morrow, when with me: <br />Ere the coming day is done, <br />Such shalt thou be, such thy son. <br />Fare thee well, bur for a day, <br />Then we mix our mouldering clay. <br />Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, <br />Pierced by shafts of many a bow; <br />And the falchion by thy side <br />To thy heart thy hand shall guide: <br />Crownless, breathless, headless fall, <br />Son and sire, the house of Saul!'<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saul-2/
