| |
| WHEN the night her vision is weaving | |
| With moonlight and starlight for warp, | |
| The King in his chamber arises | |
| And wakens the voice of his harp. | |
| |
| He sees not the hands of him playing, | 5 |
| He hears but a melody sweet; | |
| He hears but the heart of him beating | |
| With a musical, magical beat. | |
| |
| He gazes out through the window | |
| On the world in beauty bedight— | 10 |
| Forgotten the throne and the sceptre | |
| In a holier, higher delight! | |
| |
| He sees like a picture before him, | |
| The quiet, green fields where he spent | |
| His youthful years as a shepherd, | 15 |
| His only palace—a tent— | |
| |
| His sceptre—the flute of the shepherd, | |
| Carved of the cedar-wood hard; | |
| His fortune and lonely treasure— | |
| The soulful pride of the bard. | 20 |
| |
| Then pours he his soul on the harp-strings— | |
| Forgetful of sorrow and pain— | |
| The old, gray monarch of Judah | |
| Is a youthful Poet again! | |
| |
