University of Virginia Library

What can avail Earth's chill solemnities
To those for whom her bosom is a grave—
Her last best gift some dust where grief may sleep?
Wealth, grandeur, empire, praise—to him that dies?
These might be worth man's wishes, if to have
Were to possess for ever; or the deep,
In which lie wrecked his thoughts and vanities,
Would yield them back hereafter; but to weep
The things he cannot gain, or could not keep
If they were his—to covet, gather, save,
And vex his soul in following that which flies,
Or he soon must fly from—thus to reap
With those that sow the wind, nay more, to waive
For such, his claim on life's realities,
And all which God hath promised! Fool confest!
Pomp shall attend upon thee like the plume
They bear before our coffins: it can last
No longer thine than while the mourners rest,
As Earth is given to Earth, around thy tomb,
And then becomes another's—thou dost cast
Thy soul away! Thus wisdom daily cries
From street to street, and twice ten centuries
Hath daily cried—the present and the past
Hear, and have heard, believing—Nature's voice,
All that we know, acknowledge, feel—replies,
Attesting this. O! who with such a choice
Would doubt, or not distrusting, take the worse?
Alas! the young, the old, the great, the wise,
The wise in secular wisdom—such as shine
High midst their generation, and are stars
Ambition steers by—these prefer a curse,
Confessing that it is one, and repine
Alike be it gained or lost. The hero's wars,
The usurper's tyranny, the statesman's toils,
Are all that glory may adorn his hearse,
Or dreams of power his slumber—avarice soils
Our peace for less—and even the poet's verse
Gains, if so much, no more!

They too of tardier spirit,
Will run, and swiftly, in a race like this,
Though none may win. The Christian mother brings
Her child to God—kneels by that fountain's side
Which cleanses guilt, and whence the else lost inherit,
As heirs regenerate now their hopes of bliss;
Then names, and in its name, abjures the unhallowed things
Of this vain world—pomp, lucre, glory, pride,
All covetous desires—all lusts—and by
That mournful symbol of our peace—the sign
Of wrath dispersed—presents to Him who died
Both heart and soul—so, as he died, to die;
And so to rise from sin. Next, line by line,
Instructs Christ's lisping servant at her side;
—Yea, ere its tender lip can modulate
The vows then made—whose glorious banners shine
O'er Death—whose child she is—whose name to fear,
Wherewith to be content, and what to hate.

Good seed well sown—yet tares for fruit appear!
A darker radiance trembles in her eye;
With softer grace expands the innocent breast—
Love's warmth is chastened by its purity.
Alas! the world contemned till known, is dear,
So rules at last—drives out one dangerous guest,
And fills his place with seven! That guide is near;
But different precepts suit maturity:
Her daily lesson now is how to prize
Enough the chance of greatness—how to reach
Wealth, honour, power—for these to pant, to sigh,
Contend with nature, change, retract, disguise,
And make the world renounced a Deity.
Its maxims are her proverbs—she can teach
Equivocation even with God—debate
—A casuist skilled in fortune's mysteries—
Of lying thrift, herself expert in lies—
Commend the broad paved way and open gate;
And mock the vows she uttered on her knees:
This world's disclaimer soon grows worldly wise,
The titled Atheist takes her if he please,
Or missing him, some fool nor rich nor great.

What marvel then if that young heart rebel,
Whose frailties make the burden of my tale?
Her's is no trivial change—if grandeur raise
Its mists before her, pity while she strays:
Prophetic signs accomplished—witchcraft's spell—
The words of truth—of falsehood—both prevail!
Be youth's first wanderings wheresoe'er forgot;
In age, and more than once, the wisest fell.
Ye shadeless spirits! ye souls without a blot!
Unsullied, unattempted, spare to rail!
For strength, since strong, be praise to Him that gave:
Angels have disobeyed—so guard you well!
Though crowns will never move you, and the spot
Your thoughts can compass seem in Fortune's scale
But dust compared with all she yet may have,
The wise sometimes are weak—man's might at best is frail!

Whatever was of old, before the blight
Which came with time o'er all we wish or dare,
Smothering our aspirations, till despair
Hath poisoned enterprise—when Nature's light
Unsullied on Earth's elder children shone,
Engendering high conceptions, projects rare
If profitless, and suited to the might
They felt—gigantic labours—marvels shown
By remnants almost more than human, still:
Whatever was designed as great or fair
—And then the power to perfect tasked the will—
Hath had its lessened image since; a shade
Reflected feebly from the depth which gapes
Between this world and theirs. We too have laid
Our wide foundations, and have borrowed shapes
From those they left us—measuring to a span
Towers, columns, temples; yet the mightiest fade,
A late and sickly offspring, ere the sires
Are touched by age—immortal but for man.
Their dead surpass our living—and their tomb
Is larger than our Palace! Freshly spires
The Memphian obelisk o'er twice-founded Rome,
Two thousand winters younger. Adrian's mole
Scarce less surpasses in its might and years
The old and strong with us. Crop after crop
Hath risen to perish—bulk without the soul
Which godlike genius breathes in all he rears,
Quickening against corruption. Daily drop
Our works to dust; but still men toil amain,
And wisely toil they, suiting what they do
With what they are. We have our wonders too—
Moles, temples, ramparts; art extends her chain
O'er earth and sea, pierces the mountain through,
Paves roads above the wave, and scoops again
—For this Chaldæan kings had also done—
Broad paths beneath.

One mighty work alone
Hath left no shadow on the earth: it stood,
A solitary hill o'er wall and plain,
Between those rival mansions where abode
Apart the sovereign mother and the son.
On either side were they—Euphrates flowed
Through marble banks before it. High in air
The adulteress Nature crowned her spurious child
With ever-verdant leaves and flowerets rare:
A living garland on his brows she laid
To bloom for years in lustre undefiled;
With spring to bloom and change, but never fade—
A hill of caves which human hands had made—
A garden lifted from the earth—a wild
Where roes unscared might range the forest shade
Half-way toward Heaven—while deep in grots beneath
Mirth beat, with rapid heel, the vaulted ground,
And stretched its feasts till midnight; Love's warm breath
In eager whispers mingling with the sound
Of choral voices tuned themselves to love:
But neither mirth nor music reached above—
There room to build the bashful ring-dove found;
The hind in silence pastured midst the grove.

Powers boast, arts wonder, glory's resting-place!
If Egypt's pyramids were piled as one,
They still were less in bulk, and short in height.
First from the loaded earth a level base,
Like theirs, uprose—compact of ponderous stone,
With granite steps around it. Square and straight
That lofty platform stood, and every face
East, West, North, South, was equal. Wide the plain,
Sufficient to have borne a conqueror's state,
With all his hosts pavilioned o'er its space,
Sheltered from summer's heat, or winter's rain;
Ere roofs were curved above the darkened floor,
A hundred broad-ribbed vaults, in height and span
Each like that caverned pass which joins the shore
Of Posilippo to Pozzuoli,
Near Virgil's tomb—as spacious, lofty, wide,
And twice as long, the twilight grotto ran,
Ranged equal with its fellows side by side—
Cool haunts where beauty heard or breathed the sigh—
Impervious shades at noon and hushed obscurity.

Once more—behold! the enduring toil began,
A second stage on this! Vaults arched as high,
In length and number equal; but that here
—So vast the imperious builder's heart and plan—
Each front recedes a space from that below,
Where gardens blooming in the light of even;
Trees, fountains, terrace-urns, and steps appear;
Midst granite sphinxes, oaks and cedars grow:
Again, a leafy zone, a loftier tier
Like this benched in—less wide as nearer Heaven:
Still height o'er height, and range o'er range uprear
Their shortening lines, where cooler breezes blow;
A fourth, and yet a fifth—the number ends with seven!

Millions of busy hands, well-practised art,
The whole world's wealth, a will imperial,
Peace, with long leisure after conquest, all
Conspired to build: but chance supplied a part,
Here, as elsewhere, surpassing all. The soil
Produced the architect—its substance lending
To take what form he pleased; and one day's toil
Kneading its fat viscidity to shape,
Equalled a month's from granite quarries rending
Rocks piece by piece, less durable beside
Than clay kiln-burnt thus tempered. Fissures gape,
Bituminous chasms and wells through all that plain
Gurgling asphaltic cement: such a tide,
Exhaustless still, prolific Nature pours,
Concocting there her pitchy slime in vain.

Thence Babylon's surpassing greatness—towers,
Walls, arches, temples, palaces—aloof
From earth, though earth-created. Scrupulous pride
With gold and marble crusts her works again,
Covering unsightly strength, till floor and roof
Reflect each other's lustre. That warm sky
Corrupts not—winter with its winds and rain
Smites harmless on the casing porphyry,
Imperishable, stainless, smooth. Even here
Midst these huge vaults, if less adorned, the sight
Finds nothing vile—though coarser blocks appear
Ill-squared and roughly chisel'd; still on high
Green tendrils creep along Telassar's stone,
Fronting the grotto's face with foliage light,
'Twixt cave and cave tenacious. Tufts adhere
Within, of mossy verdure, thickly sown
On walls which art had fashioned for delight,
Distilling coolness through their porous sides:
Arches are ceiled with stalactites depending
O'er shell-strewn pavements, such as Ocean hides
In coral rocks scooped daily by its tides
Beneath the roots of some far promontory,
Or nymph-frequented isle.

Though near its ending,
Chaldæa's aged protectress—ere the rest
Of that which shook her hearer's heart was told—
Paused as from weariness. A noise supprest,
Light-trampling feet, and voices awe-controul'd,
In busier reverence fluttered through her halls:
From galleries flowered with many-coloured stone
Inlaid, and ivory passages, its sound
Uprose, but soon was hushed again: o'er walls
Mosaic, strewed with gold, the red sun shone:
Faint rainbows floating midst the fountain's spray,
Dashed light beneath on tessellated ground;
A crimson radiance issued from the throne.
At length she spake: “What else remains to say,
“Hereafter may be told thee—this is shown,
“—If words fulfilled attest the Prophetess—
“That I till now have turned some curse away
“Which henceforth points toward thee and Babylon;
“Darts of innocuous hate—for she can bless
“Above such threatenings, and hath showered to-day
“Woes on his head that harms thee. Weaker, less,
“Vile even amongst the vile—a robber's slave—
“Captive to him that made me such—was I:
“She brought and placed me where I am—she gave
“Earth's sceptre twice, with joint supremacy
“And power through all its realms to slay or save,
“Once singly uncontroul'd.

“But let us rest:
“Eve's cooler fragrance woos us hence; its gale
“More freshly breathes around us; and the west,
“Mingling all hues, with softer light illumes
“City and plain, Bel's arrowy glare restraining:
“Hid in some spicy brake, the nightingale
“Her song, suspended since day's prime, resumes;
“Till sorrow seem love's natural voice—complaining
“Of Grief to Solitude.”

She said, and straight
Both rose, together up that breezy height
From terrace steps to terrace steps ascending,
On silken couches lightly borne along
By practised shoulders changed ere tired for more,
And swift as scarcely conscious of their weight;
Though half in fear her raptured gaze extending,
The virgin sees fair feast, or feasted throng,
Whose sandals beat upon the grotto's floor
Quick, yet in measured cadence just and even,
Ruled by sweet melody; long lines of light—
Not needless though the sun is yet in Heaven—
Tables, and happy guests within. The song
A moment hears she, and the harp. But chief
Those pendent groves delighted her—the shade
Of loftiest palms, huge oaks, and fragrant limes,
—Each stately growth according to its leaf,
Pine, cedar, cypress, ilex, all arrayed
In ranks that mix not alien hues and climes,
Though all are here. Fountains disperse their spray
Midst dusky foliage showering: undismayed
—Since nothing fears which knows not injury—
Their burnished plumes the sportive fowl display,
As if they brought a sunbeam from the sky,
Fluttering where love may call from glade to glade,
Or perch beside their nests, and end in song the day.

Stage after stage ascend they: every knee
Before them bows—the path beneath is strown
With vests and flowers—yet all the slaves they see
Are sparks of glory round Belshazzar's throne!
Among those many thousand guests, not one
Is less than princely; each in his degree
Ascends the appropriate grade, by right his own
Of merit or grace—to lose is to be lost;
They seldom fall but once!

Upon that stair
Which rises highest from Earth and Babylon—
Now standing on that height, she looks beneath:
Thus he whose footsteps climb some mountain coast,
Stops giddily aloft with pent in breath,
To watch the bursting surf and foaming shore
—As if his heart's vibration might suffice
Perchance to shake him headlong from his post—
He plants, with special heed, one foot before,
Then leans the way he gazes not, and eyes,
With all his weight thrown back, the precipice.
So poised the maid her body against her fears—
For never till that day those feet had been
Above the Earth's dull level—nor her ears
From hill or airy crag had gathered sounds
Sent up by man or nature. Towers were seen
Between the branches of her native grove,
But all remote—and seldom from its bounds
She strayed or wished to tarry. Behold, outspread,
Coloured by eve, the firmament above!
Arched till Heaven's confine and the Earth's seemed one—
Unbroken, but that still its blasted head
Ambition's old offence o'er all upraising,
Far loftier laughed at rivalry: around
The whole world's wealth summed up in Babylon,
Even to its gates entire!

She would have found
The trees about her dwelling-place, and gazing
Have sent her sighs toward home—but redly shone
Day's parting radiance on a hundred more—
Groves, thickets, forests—in that spacious bound,
As large, a hundred larger. Roofs like gold,
And lustrous domes above their summits blazing,
Vast ill-distinguished piles remote, that bore
Their shapeless bulk, through changes manifold
Themselves unchanged, from Nimrod down to Bel.
Such saw the maid o'er oaks perchance as old—
Fabrics of dubious use and history,
—Fane, palace, sepulchre, or citadel—
Midst endless ranks of rounded porphyry,
Huge shafts prodigious then in girth and height,
Now ill-believed if told. With heart elate
—Though doubly warned as holiest records tell—
Their second founder more august, in bliss
—If bliss there be to solitary state—
Godlike above his works, hence cried, ere fell
The bestial change predicted—“Is not this
My home—my kingdom's majesty—the great—
The beautiful—this Babylon?” And well
—Were arrogant boasts the sinless right of man—
Well might such glorying fall from lips whose breath
Could work so far creatively!

Beneath,
Within the city's compass proudly ran
Euphrates, first of streams, his fanes reflecting,
A long day's journey banked by palaces.
Streets throbbed throughout with pulse-like life, collecting,
Dispersing, mingling, changing crowds—impeded,
And spacious as they were, too narrow for the press.
The house-roofs glowed with crimson revellers,
Some new device or scurril sport expecting—
While crowned buffoons their claims of conquest pleaded,
Or mimic Cyrus mourned his own distress.
Walls seem to live, the plethoric city stirs—
Suburban idols lead their worshippers—
A busy hour is this for idleness.

From dreams of speechless wonder starts the Maid,
Recalled by Nitocris. A gate of brass
Behind her sees she guarded, and a wall
Crowned with fair towers above, to keep the shade
Untrespassed on that kingly mountain's head,
Where only two—with those they bring—may pass:
Just bound prescribed by sovereignty—thence all
Unsummoned must recede beside. Outspread,
The royal ensigns glitter at the gate:
Armed eunuchs watch before them: verdant grass,
Lawns far retiring, dark and silent woods,
—How much unlike the world beheld so late!—
Appear within—dispersed or clustered trees,
And hills, for hills stand here the spicy mounds
Which skreen again those gardens, whence the breeze
Steals fragrance, and autumnal rain in floods
Swells to its brim the unsullied lake below.
There drinks the stately hart, the chamois bounds,
All harmless creatures range its solitudes—
And thence the terrace fountains largely flow,
The grotto roofs are dewed, the palace halls
Refreshed with sparkling coolness. Art presides
Conspicuous o'er the mountain's caverned sides,
With statues, terrace steps, and many a row
Of palms or cedars arched above; but here,
Hidden on its spacious summit, changed and shy,
Averse from praise, she works as Nature guides;
Least happy if her cautious steps appear,
Or name be heard—like bashful Charity,
The fame she earns, she yields; the aid she lends, she hides.

To pity some ascribe her labours—love—
And beauty's tears—who tell of times gone by
So far, they scarce know when—a Median Bride,
Youthful and newly throned, that wept the grove,
The stream, and valley near her native home—
One whom dread Nature nursed in infancy
And never weaned—though great, ill-satisfied,
She loathed the eternal plain, and longed to roam
Through wilder shades upon the mossy side
Of mountain heights sequestered—hence uprose
From human hands, love wrought so mightily,
Hills seated in mid-air, a forest in the sky.

Thus some declare, and most incline to those:
Others assert an earlier cause, and trace
The first suggestion to repentant guilt—
Grieved memory fixed on pristine innocence:
These mount above the date of human woes
Ere man was cursed, and all his spotted race
To be, through him. The pile, they say, was built
A record of his happier state, and whence
He fell transgressing—image of the place
That once stood near, now lost.

Ailona, raising
Delighted eyes, those woods and lawns surveyed:
Next scaled their grassy mound—like Eve still pure
Far o'er the world, then new, in wonder gazing—
Toward all Chaldæa's plains, her paler face,
With lips apart yet voiceless, turned the Maid
From this its Paradise—both too secure,
Though duly warned! But different what they saw:
Here were no dreadless herds in silence grazing
At large! unshepherded—no vacant fields
Untilled—no pathless solitudes: with awe
The Maid of Israel cast her dazzled sight
On earth, sown thick for leagues with helms and shields,
Assembled nations, armies infinite,
The city round her feet—beyond a world at war.

Vast scene—almost too glorious for delight!
Even to the tents of Cyrus reached her eyes,
Though far away—where cleft Euphrates yields,
And guards on either side, broad space between—
Numerous as those white clouds on vernal skies
Crumbling the freckled blue ere winds arise,
And strewing Heaven with flakes. The silent Queen
Pondered what seemed like labour in despite,
Or shame that lingers yet, though courage dies—
Envy against the conqueror's joy—disdain
Which stops to turn and threaten ere its flight.
Intent she looked awhile, then spake: “The plain
“They moat in front with trenches deep and wide,
“Coupling its streams. We thought the Median wise,
“But thus past hope he toils through shame or pride—
“Perhaps both—for such near opposites may meet.
“There let him dig or build—till winter's rain,
“Sweeping his earth-made bulwarks from his feet,
“In floods unite those parted streams again—
“A day too late his tents are fortified:
“Such tardy prudence bears ill fruit.”—O thou!
Before so vigilant—that dost debate
Of others' wisdom!—snares thou canst not see,
Or seeing regardest not, are round thee now—
Alas! the wise, the aged, the just, the great!
In tears thy race began, in groans its end must be!

They turn, descending to the still lake's side,
And sit where myrtle branches whiten—where
The mossy turf is starred with half-closed flowers,
Though moist, not yet forsaken of the bee:
Past sunset now his drowsy sounds abide
A little longer in the twilight air
Both violet tinged and scented: lightly showers
The temperate Spring her pearls on grass and tree.
To one who sits, half nature's wealth is new:
Ailona marvels at the shapes below
Like spirits of fire unquenched midst that pure tide,
Armed in bright panoply of burnished scales,
Vermilion streaked and azure. Here her view
She fixes dubious on the stately roe
Carrying her crest erect through woods and vales—
Fawn, or familiar hart, with antlers wide
And golden collar round a neck of snow.
But when the gentle beast draws near them—woe!
Woe! when it rests its head upon her knee,
Stretching at length before her!—Shall she hide
With breath supprest her terrors from the foe
Whose broad eye watches hers so fixedly?
A little higher behind, the laughing Queen
Sees one small foot drawn in prepared to flee,
And marks how pale her cheeks—then what a glow
Suffused by shame hath tinged their ivory,
And spread its roses downward to the zone:
Soon flowers are plucked for food, with joyful mien
The adventurous hand extended.

Nor alone
Well pleased, the gracious mother bends her eye
Benign, and prone to love: another face
Looks down, though near, midst playful cares unseen,
Changed from its pride through beauty's potency,
And chastened by the rays of that young grace
Which lives and dies with innocence. At last
The Virgin turns, and o'er her on the green
Behold! a brow whose cloudier moods have cast
Sorrow and fear—where spreads the human race
Shame, with perplexity—but now serene,
Eased of its frowns and diadem. Submiss
—Her eyes declined, and bosom beating fast—
Ailona kneels before him on the place;
While thus, uprising slow, aged Nitocris:

“The Gods are watchful for my Son in this—
“Glory his own hand purchaseth—of old,
“Wealth, empire, majesty, next theirs in Heaven,
“Were sovereign rights inherited—but bliss
“To whom they will they grant, from whom withhold;
“No human might can reach, nor keep when given.”

So she; in mirth the sportive king replied:
“But yet with threats they send it—woe on woe!
“Accursed be he that spurns.”—The Sorceress cried:
“Woe to the imperious city's haughtiness!
“If she shall weep—woe to tongue of pride!”—
“Why threats to me and terrors? am I their foe?
“What need of forced acceptance?—this is well,
“They did not give that dark-faced Prophetess,
“And leave no choice but wrath, or one like her.
“There might have been indeed a task for Bel,
“If she had come both Queen and Messenger!
“But they who sent thee, Maid, must mean to bless:—
“Thou shalt be happier than they bid—as high
“As they themselves could place thee—thou shalt have
“From me unasked whatever they confer—
“Whatever they retain but immortality.”

So spake he, gazing on her face upraised
With looks 'twixt love and wonder. Gladly smiled
Those lips parental first—then changed to grave,
Rebuked his heedless pride in accents mild.

“Be such as love and bless us, blessed and praised!
“This cannot burden thankfulness. For me—
“All that I have, or had, that Sorceress gave—
“Life, glory, empire—what could I repay?
“Our solitary grandeur yields but sighs:
“Too high from men for human converse we!
“But blessed is love with one so fair and wise;
“—How fair thou seest—how wise I found to-day—
“It costs small labour here to walk with destiny.”

Once more the joyful Monarch laughed and said:
“O still revered! directress of mine eyes!
“Meek herald of my better thoughts—and now
“Their just interpreter!—be Heaven obeyed
“Which sends a Goddess on its embassies.
“Sometimes perplexed—but ever patient thou!
“Three days Belshazzar strives to please the Skies—
“The first is almost gone—to-morrow brings,
“Till eve, laborious sacrifices—toils
“In bloody gifts to weariness—the last
“We feast in glory, served by captive kings:—
“And Princes great as kings were once, ere past
“The flood which gathered empires with their spoils
“In heaps for us, shall eat as well as I.
“It is the last great day to Babylon!
“Then, since thyself hath willed it, at my side
“In equal honour seated on her throne—
“Above the injurious thoughts of rivalry—
“She shall be worshipped both as Queen and Bride.”

Thus said, he turned away—the Queens descended,
For stars appeared though few, and feebly shone
With horns acute Night's paler lamp above.
By still augmenting crowds to Earth attended
They went—but never from that Virgin's breast
Did hope, or dread, or regal pageant shake
Thoughts of the ancient Sire, and lonely Grove
Beneath whose shade had been her childhood's rest:
She could divine his terrors for her sake,
And knew how rash the impatience of his love.
Such told she Nitocris, then kneeling spake:
“Gracious beyond my thoughts in all thy ways—
“Add this in pity toward the old—bestow
“The time which yet remains on both—two days!
“For such a change how brief!”—“There needs not now
“That tremulous voice,” she said, “or suppliant knee—
“Beloved—betrothed—it is thy will—and thou
“Art great as I.”

Those sportive gallies flee
With arms and lights around her on the tide,
Troubling its torch-lit surface in their race—
Again, behind the whitened waters hiss,
While drops like liquid silver fall beside,
Shook from the oar to melt upon its face.
There princely Mirria waits—a matron she,
Revered as wise, and loved of Nitocris—
In silent awe observant near the Bride:
That laughing sisterhood, when noon was high,
So pleased, so fond, officious, proud, and free,
Sit at the Virgin's feet demurely shy,
Even smiles perplex the bashful company.
Lo! prostrate thousands meet her on the shore:
Streets where the Captive passed, a public show,
Since morn, or trod in hopeless flight before,
Pursued by drunken cries—through these they ride
Each on her couch—herself a deity!
The sacred cymbals clash, the torches glow,
While sceptred heralds bid their slaves adore.
That grove seems blessed, at length, or purified—
Tamed Superstition hides her scruples here;
Its blasted trees can harbour death no more—
Who dreads the shade where Love and Power reside?
The fear of kings hath chased all baser fear.

She finds not whom she seeks—to threat—to pray—
In turn to be derided and reviled—
Since morn, alas! till now, from street to street,
That wretched Sire explores the public way—
Hath any seen Bel's priests, or met his Child?
Who shall regard his tears?—who stop to guide his feet?
If good men pause and pity—few be they!
“So young, thus lost!—so innocent, beguiled!
“May God reward the heart which grieves for hers today!”

In unregarding ears he threats and calls,
Till sight swims sickly round, and reels the knee
Unnerved by grief: not choice, but providence,
Conducts the unconscious Elder whence he came:
He sees the crowded grove, the guarded walls,
Arms at his gate, and lamps from every tree—
Bewildered doubts he if the giddy sense
Discern aright—what yet appears the same:
Lo! crimson garments trail along his halls—
By this he knows that sight is mockery:
At length a voice is heard which cannot shame—
The breast, which presses his, Ailona's breast must be.