The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird Fifth Edition: With a Memoir by the Rev. Jardine Wallace |
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First Tale: Herodion and Azala.
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird |  |
First Tale: Herodion and Azala.
I. PART I.
High mission theirs and blest! the Prophets share
Jehovah's mind, Jehovah's word they bear
From land to land, to peoples and to kings,
Borne fear-defying on the Spirit's wings.
Then, then, they wait not through time's dull delay;
Theirs the far vision of the unborn day,
Long glories sleeping in their seed they scan,
And taste the future joys ordained for Man.
But bring the balance. Here the blood is spilt
Of peopled kingdoms by o'erlording Guilt;
There pleasure yields but sorrows—oh, they be
Too many for the good which earth must see.
Hence joy is his o'erbalanced far by pain,
Whose spirit kens the Future's coming train;
Unblest by hope where certainty appears:
And knowledge saddens through protracted years.
For he is human still. Then scorn and hate
Too oft the prophet's warning voice await,
From those for whom the awful charge he bears
To instruct his spirit in their future cares:
So keen their hate, he scarcely can repress
Unhallowed joy at their ordained distress.
If right his heart, yet his the growing wo
Their ills increasing with their scorn to know;
While new-commissioned threats from God on high
Still tell their worth who turn not but will die.
And thus his large heart's but prerogative
With deeper awe, with trembling still to live.
Jehovah's mind, Jehovah's word they bear
From land to land, to peoples and to kings,
Borne fear-defying on the Spirit's wings.
Then, then, they wait not through time's dull delay;
Theirs the far vision of the unborn day,
Long glories sleeping in their seed they scan,
And taste the future joys ordained for Man.
But bring the balance. Here the blood is spilt
Of peopled kingdoms by o'erlording Guilt;
There pleasure yields but sorrows—oh, they be
Too many for the good which earth must see.
Hence joy is his o'erbalanced far by pain,
Whose spirit kens the Future's coming train;
Unblest by hope where certainty appears:
And knowledge saddens through protracted years.
For he is human still. Then scorn and hate
Too oft the prophet's warning voice await,
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To instruct his spirit in their future cares:
So keen their hate, he scarcely can repress
Unhallowed joy at their ordained distress.
If right his heart, yet his the growing wo
Their ills increasing with their scorn to know;
While new-commissioned threats from God on high
Still tell their worth who turn not but will die.
And thus his large heart's but prerogative
With deeper awe, with trembling still to live.
Those joys, how solemn, these majestic woes
Beseem the forms that young Azala shows,
Wrought of her needle round her father's halls:
Their life, their type, their burden she recalls,
As round she leads Herodion by the hand,
And points them there, the prophets of the land.
She, him to please, sprung of a prophet's line,
And far in battle, wrought the bold design;
Yea more she wishes now, great-hearted maid,
Their patriot lessons on his spirit laid,
As back to war he goes: Two orphans they,
Who loved each other from their earliest day,
And now betrothed; but both are self-denied,
And Judah must be saved ere she will be his bride.
No need to nerve his valour, if unbent
By love he slack not: this she must prevent;
And showed the prophets, that his soul might draw
Strength from those forms august, strength from those heads of awe
And lion faces: thus she strengthened him,
That stag-eyed daughter of Jerusalem.
Beseem the forms that young Azala shows,
Wrought of her needle round her father's halls:
Their life, their type, their burden she recalls,
As round she leads Herodion by the hand,
And points them there, the prophets of the land.
She, him to please, sprung of a prophet's line,
And far in battle, wrought the bold design;
Yea more she wishes now, great-hearted maid,
Their patriot lessons on his spirit laid,
As back to war he goes: Two orphans they,
Who loved each other from their earliest day,
And now betrothed; but both are self-denied,
And Judah must be saved ere she will be his bride.
No need to nerve his valour, if unbent
By love he slack not: this she must prevent;
And showed the prophets, that his soul might draw
Strength from those forms august, strength from those heads of awe
And lion faces: thus she strengthened him,
That stag-eyed daughter of Jerusalem.
Lo! Judah's Shepherd-King: He bore with grace
A golden harp: high looked his Heavenward face,
Kindling to song divine. Behind him rose
Mount Zion's pomp of beauty and repose.
A golden harp: high looked his Heavenward face,
Kindling to song divine. Behind him rose
Mount Zion's pomp of beauty and repose.
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Behold! behold, uplifted through the air,
The swift Ezekiel by his lock of hair!
Near burned the Appearance undefinedly dread,
Whose hand put forth upraised him by the head.
Within its fierce reflection cast abroad,
The Prophet's forehead like a furnace glowed.
From terror half, half from his vehement mind,
His lurid hair impetuous streamed behind.
The swift Ezekiel by his lock of hair!
Near burned the Appearance undefinedly dread,
Whose hand put forth upraised him by the head.
Within its fierce reflection cast abroad,
The Prophet's forehead like a furnace glowed.
From terror half, half from his vehement mind,
His lurid hair impetuous streamed behind.
But lo! young Daniel in the Den, the glare
Of lions round him in the twilight there.
Seemed some, as plunged they headlong to devour,
In difficult check caught by a viewless Power;
Bowed their curbed necks, their wrenchèd heads subdued,
Half turned they hung in dreadful attitude.
Others bent slept; but still their fronts were racked
With lust of blood, their forms were still unslacked,
As if at once their hungry rage had been
Drowned in deep sleep by that vast Power unseen.
The rest, with peace upon their massive brows,
Gaze on the Prophet as in prayer he bows.
Of lions round him in the twilight there.
Seemed some, as plunged they headlong to devour,
In difficult check caught by a viewless Power;
Bowed their curbed necks, their wrenchèd heads subdued,
Half turned they hung in dreadful attitude.
Others bent slept; but still their fronts were racked
With lust of blood, their forms were still unslacked,
As if at once their hungry rage had been
Drowned in deep sleep by that vast Power unseen.
The rest, with peace upon their massive brows,
Gaze on the Prophet as in prayer he bows.
Divine of beauty more young seers they saw,
And ancients laden with prophetic awe:
Bards they as well as prophets, forth in song
Their spirits rushed against the tops of Wrong.
And ancients laden with prophetic awe:
Bards they as well as prophets, forth in song
Their spirits rushed against the tops of Wrong.
Herodion went. Land of such men, for thee
The great Deliverer how he longed to be!
The great Deliverer how he longed to be!
II. PART II.
Slow o'er Herodion went the night and day,
As deeply wounded on his bed he lay.
Well had he fought to stop, while yet afar,
The growing triumphs of the Roman war;
Well had he fought to stay the overthrow
Of Zion now beleaguered by the foe.
Wounded he fell; but snatched from instant fate,
His soldiers drew him from the embattled gate,
And bore him home. Azala tends him there,
And waits and watches with unwearied care.
All this might yield a heart-appeasing thought,
To bear him calmly through his present lot;
But his the fiery nature that could ill
Endure an arm less active than his will.
Electric blood, an energy of frame
Beyond the stuff of mortals, gave him fame
Even when a boy; a patriot spirit bore
The bold young warrior on from shore to shore.
But Rome came on; and Zion's now the stage
Whereon his loftier battles he must wage.
How, when her gates were widely open flung,
Forth like a panther of the wild he sprung,
Far flinging back, as on the foe he leapt,
The sable locks that o'er his shoulders swept,
Redundant from beneath a hoop of gold
Which, set with jewels, round his head was rolled!
With glory came command: though young, he led
A band of veterans, of their foes the dread,
Gray men enseamed with scars from many a brunt;
And proud were they to have him in their front,
Clashing their arms around him, shaking each
His angry beard singed in the fiery breach.
How thus, a patriot, and in honour's quest
Fierce, could this wounded hero calmly rest?
Sterner his pangs to think that feuds within
His country tore with suicidal sin.
But hark! Half-raised, he listened to the fight,
His soul commixed with the tumultuous night;
Far-plunging, grappling through the battle-tide,
He gloried bearing down the Roman side;
Till died the uproar suddenly, and shocked
His spirit to a present sense that mocked
The ideal toil, but left him, trembling yet,
From off his brow to wipe no fancied sweat.
As deeply wounded on his bed he lay.
Well had he fought to stop, while yet afar,
The growing triumphs of the Roman war;
Well had he fought to stay the overthrow
Of Zion now beleaguered by the foe.
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His soldiers drew him from the embattled gate,
And bore him home. Azala tends him there,
And waits and watches with unwearied care.
All this might yield a heart-appeasing thought,
To bear him calmly through his present lot;
But his the fiery nature that could ill
Endure an arm less active than his will.
Electric blood, an energy of frame
Beyond the stuff of mortals, gave him fame
Even when a boy; a patriot spirit bore
The bold young warrior on from shore to shore.
But Rome came on; and Zion's now the stage
Whereon his loftier battles he must wage.
How, when her gates were widely open flung,
Forth like a panther of the wild he sprung,
Far flinging back, as on the foe he leapt,
The sable locks that o'er his shoulders swept,
Redundant from beneath a hoop of gold
Which, set with jewels, round his head was rolled!
With glory came command: though young, he led
A band of veterans, of their foes the dread,
Gray men enseamed with scars from many a brunt;
And proud were they to have him in their front,
Clashing their arms around him, shaking each
His angry beard singed in the fiery breach.
How thus, a patriot, and in honour's quest
Fierce, could this wounded hero calmly rest?
Sterner his pangs to think that feuds within
His country tore with suicidal sin.
But hark! Half-raised, he listened to the fight,
His soul commixed with the tumultuous night;
Far-plunging, grappling through the battle-tide,
He gloried bearing down the Roman side;
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His spirit to a present sense that mocked
The ideal toil, but left him, trembling yet,
From off his brow to wipe no fancied sweat.
II.
Day passed: Azala came not. Night came o'er him:An aged nurse, Josepha, stood before him.
“What shall we do?” exclaimed she, fear-subdued:
“At noon Azala went to seek us food;
For bread and water hardly now we find,
Though daily portions are to you assigned:
Herself scarce eats, or seems frail bread to need;
Her own high thoughts her own dear body feed.
A sword she took: I fear the worst: for you
What quest would she not dare, so loving true?
She's not come home: the battle raged: this hour
The Holy Hill is in the enemy's power;
I fear she's slain; I've sought her far and wide,
But found her not; yet search must still be tried.
Oh, could you rise! and quick! for still this night
The foe's grim pause but tells the ready fight.
I fear you cannot?” Up Herodion sprung,
A hasty mantle o'er his vest he flung;
By fiery fever to his limbs was lent
Unnatural strength: forth with the Nurse he went.
III.
They sought Azala. All was strange repose,Like that which waits the Earthquake's coming throes;
For now the sword had cut its myriads down,
And famine thinned the many-peopled town,
And scarce the feeble residue could meet,
Or make be heard their voices in the street.
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The slain unburied in their festering state;
In these thick times of blood all reverence fled,
All hope, the living cared not for the dead.
They sought, but found her not. Loud tumults rise,
And ruddy wavings fire the midnight skies.
Home slow they went: they climb the roof, faint, slow.
The Temple burns! O'er porch and portico
They see the sheeted conflagration go.
From sainted lattice, and from sacred door,
The crooked fires with mingled warriors pour,
Who seem the demons of the flame, as they
With waving swords burst forth their writhing way.
The red plague higher rides; with close embrace
Now twines around the Temple's central place,
Whose golden spikes clear glitter in the light;
Now driven away as by the winds of night,
Bellying it hangs in one wide-wafted blaze,
With ragged darting tongues that lick a thousand ways.
How dread below, with gleams, with darkness swept,
Now fiercely clear, the frenzied Battle leapt!
Shrill sprung the Nurse: she pointed to the street,
There came Azala with impetuous feet;
Bleeding she came, yet boldly waved her brand,
Morsels of bread were in her other hand.
She saw Herodion; with unnatural glee,
“Fear not,” she cried, “I'll bring the food for thee;
Through the strait days of siege and famine I
Will bravely feed you till this wo be by:
Come to the feast!” But fainting on her side
She sunk, and feebly on Herodion cried.
Down rushed he, falling on her neck he lay:
United thus in death they breathed their souls away.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Aird | |