University of Virginia Library

It was night:—
Such fearful night as closes in the day
Of mortal conflict.—Heaven's bright lamp was out,—
But man with thousand flickering fires had spread
The boundless plain, that mock'd his absent ray.—
Silence was in the air:—the beauteous gems
Of night—Heaven's radiant watch when, in his dark
Pavilion Jove reposes, glow'd serene.—
No moving cloud was seen:—the lofty trees,
The dew-steep'd grass, the dim and distant hills,
All seem'd in sleep profound.—But mortals waked:—
The voice of pain was heard—the deep'ning groan—
The burst of anger—and the sob of grief;—
The loud lament;—the dull monotonous tone
Of grief-condoling friend:—loud laughter then
From jovial groups unhurt who ply the bowl,
And tell their feats that day. With toil oppress'd
Some, on the naked ground outstretch'd in sleep,
Breathe loud and heavily.—Along the plain
Quick moving torches glance:—light female forms
With hurried step are seeking through the field
Husbands or lovers—fathers—brothers lost:—
To many a ghastly face the torch is lower'd,
And snatch'd in haste away:—o'er many a pale
And gasping victim leans the wretched friend,
And gives the useless cordial.—Staggering, weak,
Just risen from the ground, and bleeding fast,
Some unsupported wretch there totters on
To seek uncertain help:—he pauses oft
And leans upon his sword, and feels the tide
Of life fast ebbing from his wounds; then looks
With anxious eye on the calm heaven, and sighs
To think on wife and child—and far-off home—
And scenes of infancy beloved—and friends
Perhaps for ever lost.—Oh! then his soul
Sinks in him; and the stifling sob, that tells
The breaking heart, is heard, as slow again
He trembles on his way.

The distant tread
Of lonely horseman,—o'er the soft smooth sod
Pattering, like summer rain-drops when the air
Is hush'd, and heavy clouds, like rocks of jet
Rising precipitous above the rim
Of the horizon, threaten thunder near—
Is heard at times: or neigh of wounded steed,
Answer'd perchance by one who arches proud
His neck unscathed;—with all his armour on,
Fearless and free roaming the darkling plain,—
His rider with the dead.—

There slowly moves
The sorrowing group that in their arms bear off
The dying man:—the torch light on his face
Throws its red glare, but cannot hide the hue
Of ghastly death:—the arrow in his breast
Is rooted still, and quivers as they tread:—
They seek the wearied leach;—but fate prevents,
And ere they pause the vital spark has fled!

Such is the victor's portion! such the night
That follows on the day of glorious fame,
When Cyrus o'er the banded hosts of Greece,
Of Egypt, and of Asia, conqueror stood.—
His foes were scatter'd wide, or captive made,
Or breathless on the field:—the shouts of joy
Had rent the evening air:—the trophies waved,—
The glittering spoils were won:—but then the night
Comes with its solemn feelings;—pomp and shows
Are hid,—but sad realities of woe,
That sun can never cheer, nor darkness hide,
Proclaim war's follies, and its desperate guilt.—

Where is Panthea?—far across the vale,
In darkness and in solitude she sits
On the cold earth:—outstretch'd beside her lies
The body of her lord,—and in her lap
The pallid head is laid. Silence is round,
Save from a little rill the murmur soft
And melancholy;—save from the far camp,
In the deep hush of midnight dimly heard,
Quick flitting noises, and anon the hum,
On favouring breezes borne, of many tongues;—
Or neigh of steed that seems to melt away
In the vast air, so soft it strikes the sense.

There, motionless and vacant—with a heart
Broken—and crush'd—and wither'd, till the weight
Of misery had brought its own relief,
That torpor of the soul, when grief no more
Can wake a pang, nor hope impart a smile;—
There sat Panthea:—on her husband's face
Her fix'd eyes bent:—her locks dishevell'd hung
Adown her lovely neck.—There through the night
Wretched sat she,—and there she linger'd still
When the grey morning dawn'd:—she had not stirr'd;
She had not sigh'd:—the cold fresh mists of morn
Stood thick upon her—and her golden hair
Studded with trembling dew-drops. Like the corse
She gazed upon, the deadness of her look:—
Pale as a sculptured marble; but her form
Lovelier than ever artist traced,—or thought
Of poet or of lover, in his dreams
Of more than earthly beauty, caught and lost.—
Down her fair cheek the tear that sometimes fell
Was all that told of life:—a statue else,—
The work of hand divine, to earth consign'd
For mortals to adore and gaze upon,—
She might have seem'd.—

The glorious sun arose
To light the heavens and earth, and gladden all
With his creative beam benignant. Swift
From his soft couch the playful deer upsprings,
Shaking his dewy coat, and joyous bounds
From the close thicket where he lay, to crop
The herbage twinkling in the laughing sun.—
Thousands of painted birds are quiring loud
Their welcome to the new-born day, or plume
In the gay light, on the tall forest trees,
Or by the sparkling streamlet or crisp'd lake,
Their gorgeous wings of ruby, emerald,
Sapphire, or golden die.—The antelope
Stands singly on the edge of rocky height
Precipitous,—a speck against the sky,—
To gaze awhile on the vast plains of light
And warmth below:—then fearless down the steep,
Leaping and bounding, comes to browse the grass
Delicious in its morning dew; or drink
At the clear fountain, where it bubbles up
Through the green vested soil;—or where it strays,
Like liquid crystal glassing golden sands,
Along the plain, so tranquil and so pure.—
The desert steed is prancing in the strength
Of youth and freedom: o'er the yielding sod
Proudly he lifts his sinewy limbs, and rears
His curling mane, and arches his strong neck:
Spreads his broad nostril to the wind—then starts;
And, loudly neighing, wantons in the joys
Of the young day.—Nature is all delight.
But what are glowing suns, and airs of morn,
Fragrance of flowery meads, and song of birds,
To the grief-poison'd heart?—As o'er the eye
Of death light's concentrated rays might pour;
As on the ear earth's mingled chorus fall,
And wake no feeling there—so to the soul
Benumb'd like lost Panthea's, all the joys
That earth can give, nay, all the pictured bliss
Of heaven or of elysium, fail to wake
One throb of hope responsive.—All is blank—
Nature seems dead:—the sun himself is dark:—
There is no perfume in the flower, no taste
In earth's most luscious fruit, no tone of joy
In music's loftiest measure!—

Wretched fair!
There sat she in the splendour of the morn,
O'er the cold corpse inclining, as through night
She motionless had sat; nor knew the change,
For with her all was darkness.—

Through the heavens,
Half-way his flaming course the sun had run
Yet there she linger'd still; nor seem'd to feel
The torrid beam, beneath whose fury droop'd
All living things—the herb and lofty tree,
The kid and the fierce lion:—nor her cheek
Had caught the tinge of sunny noon, nor seem'd
Like aught but dead,—save that the calm of death
Sate not upon it; but deep lines imprest,
And sharpen'd features, told the agony
Still rankling there.—

Her faithful women now,
Long searching, find her:—vainly they implore
The wretched mourner to be comforted:—
Vainly with tears they beg, the honour'd corse
To deck in funeral ornaments:—in vain
They put the cheering cordial to her lips:—
She has no sense of hearing, taste, or sight;—
No function of the soul, save what is bound
Immoveably to one sole end:—the sword
Might have pierced deep her breast;—the torturing fire
Consumed her limbs—and she had died,—but not
Had sense to feel their sufferings.—

Gently then
With a rich veil they shade her, and, oppress'd
With sorrow, to short distance slowly move,—
And sitting on the earth, their faces hide,
And weep.

With merry step along the vale
Came groups of Persian soldiers,—from pursuit
Of straggling foe—or by the thirst of spoil
To distance lured the jest—the laugh is heard
As they approach; but misery like this,
To beauty so unmatchable conjoin'd,
Appals their mirth;—they pause to gaze awhile,
Then sighing—and in silence take their way.

The slanting beam of day now midway stood
'Twixt noon and eve:—and as the night—the morn—
And the meridian hour had found her, so
Was the poor mourner still.

But who is this
That comes along the vale?—a thousand horse
Attend his state:—his steed is white as snow;
His vesture is of scarlet and of gold.—
'Tis Cyrus: he has heard her grief, and comes
To bid her dry her tears, and minister
Soft words of consolation. From his horse
Lightly he bounds: lovely is he in youth,
And dazzling in the splendour of attire;
Nods in his golden helm a violet plume;
His step is light as the young antelope's:
His countenance is fresh as morn of May.—
Yet not an eye gazed on him:—she alone,
The beauteous mourner, drew all looks: a shape
Of Heaven might almost noticeless have walk'd
Among them—such her beauty and her grief.
With solemn step, and look compassionate
And sad, the youthful conqueror draws near:
Above the corse in silence stands awhile,
And heaves the frequent sigh.—Fast coming thought
Of glorious actions past, and generous deeds
By him perform'd who now upon the earth
Lay but a kindred clod, oppress his soul,
And tell him that the conqueror's fame is but
A bauble.—Fancy's rapid pencil draws
The ardent warrior in his splendid car,
Youthful, and strong, and beauteous;—with an eye
Of light—a brow of glory—and a voice
Loud as war's brazen herald:—shining on
He sees him through the glittering ranks;—erect
He stands, and curbs his fiery steeds that know
Their master's guiding hand.—And is this he?
This cold, and pallid, and disfigured corse?
Is this the mighty one of yesterday?
It is—and Cyrus weeps. Hast thou, he said,
Noble, but too courageous spirit, left
Thy all disconsolate friends?—then stoop'd
And grasp'd the stiffen'd hand;—it clung to his—
By an Egyptian spear from the strong arm
It had been sever'd. Shuddering he replaced
The mangled limb,—while o'er Panthea's frame
A slight and scarcely noticed quiver play'd;
And that dead calm of agony return'd,
As though she had not seen, or could not feel—
Or seeing—heeded not. All desolate,
Yet in her desolation awful too,
Was she—the mirthful felt rebuke; the sad
Dropt tears, to look upon her. Like the gloom
Of some vast silent temple, when the eve
Is closing in with solemn gusts, and clouds
Dense and slow moving through the cheerless sky;
When the white monumental marbles gleam
Dimly, like ghosts that hold their mournful watch
Above the mouldering clay; their mansion once
Beloved, and still remember'd:—when, along
The lofty and invisible roof, the sound
Of the hush'd footstep hurries to and fro
Like whisperings of unearthly voices, roused
By man's intruding presence:—when the air—
Moveless and cold—seems stopping at the heart
The curdling blood, and all but death and night
Are guests unbidden;—with a gloom like this
Came on the gazer's heart the utter blank,
The hopeless misery, the freezing calm,
Of that fair mourner's aspect: life seem'd gone,
And dire despair the tenant of that frame
So beauteous, yet so fearful.

Not a sound
From all those numbers was there heard: each face
Bore a funereal sadness:—every man
Look'd as his parent or his spouse were dead:
The rich vale might a desert be,—so drear
The silence,—and the glorious sunshine, night;—
Such gloom hung o'er them.

Gazing on the corse,
With folded arms and pale and tearful face,
Willing to comfort, yet afraid to wound,
Long time the youthful king had stood; the pause
Dreary and long, with faultering tone then broke.
Lady, he said, thy prince has nobly died
And gone with victory away:—desist
From grieving now, and let the honour'd corse
With the rich ornaments I bring be deck'd:—
To him all glories due to martial worth,
Even to thy utmost wish, nay more, we'll pay;
And to the latest days a monument
Of wondrous structure, fitting his renown,
Shall tell that Abradates lies beneath—
A hero and a king. Nor shalt thou, fair
And best of women, be left desolate:
Thy many virtues Cyrus while he lives
Will honour; and his power and wealth
Thou ever shalt command.—

Panthea nought
Replied:—the hero paused awhile and wept,
Then took his way,—with all his horsemen slow
Moving, with slacken'd rein and head deprest,
Through the wide vale.—

The day is far declined:
The sun descends: the stilly evening comes;
But yet Panthea has not moved: her eye
Is open still—and looks upon the corse.
The chilly evening gale begins to wave
Her golden tresses—and along the vast
And dark'ning vale the mournful spirit sighs
Of the departed day. To dress the slain
In funeral ornaments—with timid mien
And timid hand, the weeping women come;—
And standing nigh the palanquin is seen,
Whose sturdy bearers with dejected look
Wait their loved mistress to her tent to bear.
Gently the mutilated corse they move:
Gently, the lovely mourner from the earth
They raise; but she is icy cold—her limbs—
Her beauteous, pliant limbs are stiffening:—still
Her azure eye is fix'd upon the earth;
But is there animation in it?—No!
Panthea was no more!—

In Thymbra's vast
And silent vale, a monumental pile
Told to the gazing traveller, that a king,
And beauteous queen, there in each other's arms
Slept their last sleep:—the bravest he of men,
And she of women loveliest. Their names
Were—Abradates and Panthea.