The fall of Nineveh :: :: University of Virginia Library

Meantime, within the royal maiden's bower—
Hurriedly met, in fear and trembling hope,—
Sat Dara and Nehushta. That sweet spot
Herself had chosen; from the palace walls
Farthest removed; by not a sound disturbed,
And by no eye o'erlooked,—a mossy lawn
Mid lofty trees, umbrageous, folded in;
Yet to the sunshine open, and the airs
That from the deep shades all around it breathed,
Cool, and sweet scented. Myrtle, jessamine,
Roses of richest hue; all climbing shrubs,
Green-leaved and fragrant, had she planted there;
At early morn had watered, and at eve,
From a bright fountain near, that, day and night,
Throughout all seasons, a sweet music made;
And, dancing, flashing in the sun, might seem
All liquid, living diamond. Over head,
The pliant branches, intertwined, were arched:
Flowers, some; and, some, rich fruits of gorgeous hues,
Bearing abundantly; the taste to please,
Or, with rich scent, the smell; or that fine sense
Of beauty, that in forms and colours rare
Doth take delight. With fragrant moss the floor
Was planted; to the foot a carpet rich;
Or, for the languid limbs, a downy couch,
Inviting slumber. At the noon-tide hour,
Here, with some chosen maidens, would she come,
Stories of love to listen; or the deeds

Of heroes of old days: the harp, sometimes,
Herself would touch; and, with her own sweet voice,
Fill all the air with sweetness.

Oft at eve,
When to his heavenly bed the wearied sun
Had parted; and sky's glorious arch yet shone,
A last gleam catching from his closing eye,—
The palace, with her maidens, would she quit;
Through vistas dim of tall trees glide along;
Cedar, or waving pine, or giant palm;
Through orange groves, and citron; myrtle walks;
Alleys of roses; beds of sweetest flowers,—
Their odorous breathings, on the panting air,
Pouring profusely all;—and, having reached
The spot beloved,—with sport, or dance awhile
On the small lawn, to sound of dulcimer,
The pleasant time would pass: or to the lute
Give ear delighted; and the plaintive voice
That sang of hapless love: then, arm in arm,
In couples would they saunter; hearing oft
The fountain's murmur; or the evening's sigh;
Or whisperings in the leaves; or, in his pride
Of minstrelsy, the sleepless nightingale,
Charming the air with beauty of sweet sounds:
And, ever as the silence came again,
The distant and unceasing hum would list
Of that great city—as of far-off sea,
Moaning in sleep.

But oft with one alone,
One faithful, loved companion, would she come:
At early morn sometimes, while every flower,
Dew-laden, like a regal crown shone bright:
When, through the glistening trees, the golden beams
Aslant their bright flood poured; and every bird
In his green palace sitting, sang aloud;
And all the air with youthful fragrance teemed,
Fresh as at Nature's birth,—her pastime then,
The flowers to tend; to look on earth and sky;
To drink the perfume of the healthful breeze,
And in the gladness of all things be glad.

But, sometimes, quite alone, as now, she met
The raptured lover: Dara then the harp,
Or dulcimer, would touch; or, happier yet,
His words of love into her listening ear
Distil, with sweeter music than from string,
Or breathing pipe, though sweetest.

But the tale,
Now, was of battle; ghastly wounds, and death:
Of her loved father, and the rebel chief,
Mighty as Nimrod: how in fight they stood;
And how the foe prevailed: how he himself,
For her loved sake, the terrible warrior faced,
Her sire defending: how the clouds of horse
Came on; and from his spoil the conqueror drove:
How, last, in tumult dread they left the field;
The Assyrians flying, and the Medes in chase.
Of what might yet, unhappily, befall,
Long talk they held: and many an earnest word
Of caution gave she; in the after strife,—
Well for her father so!—forgotten not.