  AH, little David! least of all thy kin, Fresh from the thyme-sweet meads of Thessaly, Where the cool pastures overhang the sea, Leaving thy sheep to join the battle’s din: Here is Philistia, here the chosen hosts Wavering half-hearted on the unfought plain, Chiding thy zeal as “premature” and “vain,” The while the turbaned giant struts and boasts. We catch the shining of thy brave young face, We watch thee fit the pebble to the sling With straight, true aim and heart that knows no fear, And turn to see, O wonder of disgrace, The serried soldiery of Christ the King Skulking, protesting, squabbling in the rear! |
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