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

Meanwhile, upon the plain raged uproar dire:
In terror everywhere the Assyrians fled;
The exulting Medes pursued them. 'Midst of all,
Conspicuous chiefly, shone Belesis now;
Crying continually, “Behold the hour
Is nigh at hand! the everlasting walls
Shall be thrown down! the tyrant shall be slain!
The fetters from the nations shall be reft!
Drive on your enemies then, and trample them.
The eye of God beholds us. His dread voice
Hath on the wicked city spoken doom!
His arm to her destruction is stretched forth!
On! On! this night, perchance, her fate shall come!”

The king, meantime, as from despair itself,
New strength and courage gathering, to the field
Once more went forth,—his kingdom and his throne,
To save, resolved, or nobly with them fall.

Through the loud echoing streets, as toward the gate
Of Nisroch he drave on,—dense throngs he met,
Flying distractedly. But, when his car
Was seen; and the small force that with him came
To go against the rebel,—then fell shame
Upon the fugitives, and they turned back.
And still, as spread the cry, “Behold the king
Is going forth to battle,” all who fled,
Stopped instantly; and 'gan to turn again:
So that with him, at length, a mighty host,
Chariots, and horse, and foot, together moved.

These things beholding, more the king was cheered;
And strongly he called out; “Haste to the men
Upon the northern wall. Bid them upheap
Fires numberless, and countless torches lift,
That a great light may be upon the plain.
And, as ye go, cry out, that all may hear,
‘The king is coming forth. Let every man
Be brave, and fear not; for the rebel yet
Shall be cast down, and trodden under foot.’”

Then all who heard him, raised a mighty shout;
Proclaiming what he said: and when the men
Upon the wall had heard, they, too, lift up
Their voices, and to them upon the plain
Cried out, “The king to battle cometh forth:
Be brave, and fear not; for the rebel yet
Shall be cast down, and trodden under foot.”

Then speedily they kindled up the fires;
And every agëd man, and every boy,
And every woman on the wall, held forth
A torch bright flaming; so that o'er the field
Was there red light, as of the setting sun.

But not at once went forth the king; for yet
Unordered were the fliers; and new strength,
Horsemen, and cars, were gathering to him still.

At length the word was given, and all moved on.

Nigh to the gate, the chariot of the queen
Still waited; and, upstanding, as they passed,
Still to the soldiers she called stirringly:
“Think on your wives, your children, and your homes!
Your agëd parents, and your tottering babes,
Cry out to you! When ye lift up your swords,
Call on the gods for aid: and turn not back;
But nobly conquer, or with honor die!
Oh! not in vain your blood will stain the ground!
Even as a precious sacrifice, will heaven
Receive the smoke thereof; and on your foes
Bring vengeance; on your children, and their sons,
Ages of blessing bring. Go, brave men, go!
Go forth to victory, or to noble death!”

So cried she: and her face shone radiantly
As summer's morning. Every soldier's heart,
At her bright aspect, and her words of fire,
New courage gathered; every foot seemed swift,
And every arm grew strong. But, when the king
Drew nigh, with yet a brighter light she glowed;
And, lifting up her arms, cried fervently,—
“King of Assyria, go: thy people save,
Even as before thou savedst. Shield this night
Thy city from the spoiler;—and the hearts
Of living millions, millions yet unborn,
Will call down blessings on thee. Be thy voice
Dread as Heaven's thunder! lightning be thine eyes,
To wither utterly those cursëd ones!
Let not the sceptre from thy hands be reft,
And from thy children! Like a whirlwind sweep
Yon field rebellious! like dry forest-leaves,
Scatter thine enemies! To the battle, then!
And may the god of armies lead thee on!”

So she; and like war's fabled goddess seemed,
In her grand aspect, her majestic form,
And spirit-stirring voice. The admiring king,
Gazed on her glorious beauty; and his heart,
Even in that hour of dread, a moment's throb
Of passion felt. But the loud storm of war
Howled in his ears; and love to rage gave place.
At her bold words, as with a kindling fire,
His bosom burned: and, when he grasped his spear,
One half its weight was gone. Then through the gate
With a strong heart he went: and every man
From him took courage. Horsemen spurred amain;
The charioteers their foaming coursers smote;
And on the roaring plain, like some proud fleet,
Before a strong wind, from the river's mouth
In a vexed sea emerging—through the gate,
Deep in the ocean of their enemies drove.

Meantime, Arbaces, through the echoing streets,
Toward Bel's great portal moved on steadily.

Few were the foes whom by the way he saw,—
Jaded and flying. From the city's glare
Passing at length, upon the plain he found
Thick darkness; for no moon was in the heaven;
And a dense vault of cloud shut out the stars:
But, northward as he turned, on earth he saw
A lurid gleam, and on the sky a tinge,
Like sunset's dying fire. Darkling drave he,—
His chariots close behind; and not a man
Spake any word. Onward, and onward still,
As they advanced, more clear the light became;
The sounds of battle louder, and more loud:
But, toward the northern wall as they wheeled round,
With fury tenfold burst the horrid din;
A fiery glare was over all the field,
And a terrific struggle. Then they raised
Their scourges, and the horses bounded on.

But, to the outskirt of the Median force
When they had reached,—Arbaces paused awhile,
And to a Bactrian charioteer called out;
“Bring thy car hither—close. Now, gently bear
Prince Geber from the field; for he is bowed
With grievous sickness; and may not again
Endure the combat.” Lighting, while he spake,
In his own arms Arbaces then his friend
Uplifted; in the Bactrian's car disposed;
And, as they parted, warmly pressed his hand,
And bade be of good cheer. His chariot then
Remounted; and to Jeroboam thus:
“Now with a heedful watchfulness move on;
Lest our own soldiers we should trample down:
But, near the enemy when we shall come,—
Burst on them like a midnight thunderbolt.”

So cautiously they went. As they passed by,
The soldiers knew them, and cried out aloud,
Rejoicing; for the word had gone about
That their great chief had fallen; and their hearts
Sorely had sorrowed. Still, as they moved on,
Arbaces, to the chariots, and the horse,
Whom they beheld, called out, and bade them join

To his their force; that, with a greater strength,
They might break on their enemies. So they,
With every moment gathering might, went on.

But, while yet distant, they the battle saw,
Dreadfully raging; for, upon the wall,
Fire after fire shook forth its banner bright,
And torches numberless waved ceaselessly,—
That all the plain, like to a burning sea,
With fearful splendor rocked. Chariots, and horse,
Bright helmets, gleaming mail, and tossing plumes,
Tumultuously were working to and fro,
Like sea-foam 'mid the breakers.

As they looked,
Lo! from the gate of Nisroch, cars, and horse,
A mighty multitude, poured furiously.
The tumult then, and cries, grew more and more,
And the king's name was heard. Arbaces saw,
And in his heart thus said: “Assyria's lord
Is issuing there; but not to victory now!
Is this the night decreed, when he shall go
Proudly to battle, never to return?
What is your will, ye all o'erruling gods?
But, to the ear of man ye answer not;
Your words—events: great empires rise, and fall,
Your thoughts to speak: and even this night, perchance,
The haughty city shall in ruins write
Your dread decree unspoken.” Thus mused he;
Then nigher to the wall, where space was clear,
Turned suddenly; and, with a mighty force,
Chariots and horse, attended,—toward the gate
Of Nisroch, with an eagle's swiftness flew;
And 'gainst the foe, still issuing, with a shout
Strong as the War-God's battle-cry, drove on.

Even as a flooded river, with great noise,
Its turbid waters in a raging sea
Rolls headlong, beating back the angry waves—
So had the ponderous chariots, and the horse
Of the Assyrians, pouring from the gate,
Driven back the furious onset of their foes.

Yet as, brief space elapsed, the encountering floods

In undistinguishable conflict mix,
Roaring, and foaming; and, like mortal foes,
Grappling, and madly writhing, wave with wave,
That neither victor, neither vanquished seems,—
So had the Assyrian torrent, from the Medes,
Erelong stern greeting met; that, soon, the fight,
With hideous uproar, and confusion dire,
On both sides, with like force and fury raged.

But as, at length, with irresistible might,
Some giant wave along the howling shore
Comes towering on; and, at its very mouth,
The river sweeps aside; right through the path
Of its strong waters breaking,—even so,
Arbaces with his chariots, nigh the wall
Fiercely careering,—by the very gate,
Broke, overwhelming, on the issuing foe;
Dividing those that were upon the plain,
From those within the city.

Then began
Confusion infinite; cries of maddening fear,
With peals of triumph mingling. From the gate
Distant three arrow-flights, the monarch fought;
And, in the hurly, knew not that the foe
Behind had come, and all retreat cut off.
But, through the din, to them who manned the wall,
Came down a shriek of anguish. From the tower,
The queen, forth-looking, saw the impending fate;
Flung up her arms,—and, as of heaven, and man,
For aid imploring, called. “The king! the king!
Help! help! the king! the king!”

Her words were caught,
And flashed along the wall. Cried thousands then,
“The king is in the midst of enemies!
Fly to the rescue!” Also on the plain
Went up a cry, “Arbaces! Gather round—
Hem in the rebel—let him not escape!”

The cries flew on; and in both armies rose
Fresh fury. From all sides the Assyrians pressed,
The king to rescue; from all sides the Medes,
With shouts victorious, hasted to attack.

As when a whirlwind 'mid the forest roars,
Swinging the huge heads of the groaning trees,—
East, North, West, South, it turns,—in giddy wheel
Rocking the howling wilderness,—even so,
In wild confusion tossing, reeling round,
Toiled the close mingling hosts: here, fiercely driven;
There, hotly driving: helmet clashing loud
'Gainst helmet; shield 'gainst shield, and sword 'gainst sword;
Steed blowing against steed; and wheel 'gainst wheel
Horribly grinding.

That loud cry of fear,
Pealed from the wall, Assyria's monarch heard;
And, backward looking, saw the Median cars
Behind him; and the foe on all sides round
Against him urging. Then his countenance fell;
And in his heart he said; “The hour is come!
My kingdom is departing from me! Still,
Let me not die, upon mine enemies
All unavenged. Could I but pierce the heart
Of the great rebel,—let his spear in mine
Be buried instantly, I heed not! Ha---
His name I hear: his voice, too, hear I not?
And Ahab, the false Bactrian,—upon him,
Boasting, they call. Now, by the eternal gods!
Against them both will I go back; and slay,
Or else by them be slain!” Resolving thus,
To Dara he called out; “Turn round the car,
Swift as thou may;—the rebel is behind.
Right toward the gate drive back; and, if thou see
The chariot of Arbaces, or the car
Of Ahab, the false Bactrian,—then the steeds
Urge to their utmost, and drive wheel in wheel;
For I will slay them, or by them be slain.
But, if thou see them not,—back through the gate,
Speed as thou may; for, of a truth, hath God
This night his face against us set; and given
His strength unto our enemies.”

These words
The charioteer grieved sorely; for he thought

Upon his promise to Nehushta given,
Her sire to guard in battle; and saw now
That all his power was gone. Reluctantly
Then drew he at the reins; but, 'mid the throng,
The horses were entangled, and the wheels
Fast locked; for now, of chariots and of horse,
Both Median and Assyrian, was the press
Terrific; nor, awhile, could any move,
Advancing, or retreating. Thousands there
Were crushed, and trampled: thousands, in their cars,
Or on their horses, slain,—unto the ground
Fell not,—so dense the thronging; but—borne up,
Hither and thither, on the hard-wedged mass,—
Seemed as the ghastly fragments of a wreck,
On war's stern ocean rocking. Sword, and axe,
Arrow, and iron dart, and shortened spear,
With their grim toil were crimsoned. Wheel in wheel
Horribly grinding, clashed; trace, axle, broke;
Horse 'gainst horse reared,—close grappling, chest to chest;
Fire from their eye-balls flashing—snorted, shrieked;
And madly, with bared teeth, each other tore.

So stood the fight. With bow, spear, dart, or sword,
Hotly the monarch combated: but still
His valour was despair; for, all around,
Nor distant far, he heard the direful roar
Of his fierce enemies; and, for the throng,
Even of his friends, might not by flight escape.

But, in awhile, o'er all the din of fight,
Came to his ear the strong and terrible voice
Of his great foe. Behind him looking then,
The towering form in his high car he saw,
Through the thick press of chariots, steeds, and men,
Too rapidly advancing: for the Medes,
Well as they might, drew back, to give him room;
The Assyrians, as they could, to fly from him.

As when a lion, monarch of the wastes
Of desert Afric, prowling for his prey,
Hears from afar the bellowing of wild bull,—
His shaggy mane upstarts; his eyes are flame;

From his deep chest quick thunder-pantings burst:
Onward he springs; and, through the tangled copse,—
Rending, and crashing, trampling, bowing down,—
Forces his headlong way,—Arbaces so,
Through the dense throng of the Assyrians held
His course resistless; ever toward the king
Urging impetuously; all meaner foes
O'erlooking, or despising.

At that sight,
Fury, and terror, on the monarch seized:
Bending his bow, shaft after shaft he drove
Against the Mede; and still to Dara called,
“Force on the chariot! I will meet him now.”

Dara smote then the steeds; and with loud voice
Incited them. Like prisoned tigers, they
Franticly bounded, snorted, and reared up;
And forward dashed again. But, close in front,
Were many powerful horses; and the wheels,
On either side, 'gainst other wheels were jammed;
So that with difficulty, right, and left,
Dragging a ponderous car, they labored on.
Still, looking back, shaft after shaft, the king
'Gainst his foe drove. The Mede, upon his prey
His eyes for ever fixing, heeded not;
But, with his whole collected force, at length,
Swift as an arrow, toward him launched a spear.

Drawing his bow, the monarch stood; the barb
Touched almost on the arch,—when bow and shaft
Dropped from his hands: for the tempestuous lance
Struck on his crest; snapped short the girding band
That passed beneath his chin; and on the ground,
Amid the horse-feet, drove the gleaming helm.

Back in his car Sardanapalus reeled;
Amazed, and stunned; yet wildly staring round.
Then saw he that his steeds were masterless;
For, as the spear from his own helm had glanced,—
Rapidly swinging round, the ashen beam
To the ground had stricken Dara,—the reins still
Grasped in his hand. The Irresistible,
Dread as an angry god, was coming on;

In his strong gripe another beamy lance,
The death-stroke threatening: then the monarch's soul
Within him sank; bewildered was his brain:
The royal crimson mantle first flung off,—
'Neath his broad buckler cowering, to the ground
He hasted; in his tremor muttering,
“Even yet, perchance, unseen I may escape.”

Then surely had he perished,—'mid the steeds
And chariots crushed; but that a hand unknown,
Pressed o'er his brow a helmet; and a voice,
Deep and commanding, in his ear thus spake:
“Into my car, O king, now get thee up;
And fear not; for thine hour not yet is come.”

The countenance of him that spake, was dark
As the storm-cloud; his eye like the red bolt
That breaketh from it. Of gigantic height
The form was, though sore wasted; and the arm
Was mighty. While yet speaking, to his car
The king he lifted; then himself upsprang.

The helm which on the bowed head he had pressed,
Was black, and plumeless: a black mantle now,—
That so the gorgeous arms might be concealed,—
He flung upon his shoulders: with quick hand,
Next, from the nerveless, trembling arm, he took
The golden shield; into the royal car
Upflung it,—in its place, a buckler gave,—
Steel, darkened in the fire: seized then the reins;
And, as they onward moved, close to his ear
Thus said: “Speak not, O king, lest to the foe
Thy words betray thee: and, whate'er betide,
Draw not the sword,—but, underneath thy shield,
Lie safe from peril,—so, within the walls
Unharmed thou may escape. But, for thine hosts,
They utterly discomfited will be;
Nor mortal power can save them.”

Answer none
The monarch made; nor of resistance thought:
A dizziness was in his brain; his limbs,
As in a fearful dream, were motionless.
Through the dense throng, slowly the car made way;

And no man knew him; for loud cries went up,
“The king is slain! the gods are with our foes!
Fly to the city, and make fast the gates!”

Dara, meantime, recovering quickly, sprang
Into the royal car; and, anxiously
Around him looking, saw the helpless king
In a mean chariot, and in strange attire;
And knew he shunned the conflict. To himself
Then thus; “In that disguise he may escape:
My voice shall not reveal him. Safer thus,
Than by his wind-swift horses rapt along,
In his own blazing chariot. But, for me,
Sole duty now, from the fierce foe to save
The steeds, and priceless car. Give me clear room,
Then may they follow; and, if their worn steeds
Can overtake the arrow in its flight,
Not vain may be pursuit.”

Thus he, and strove
From out the press to move. But Zimri now,
Who had the monarch's fall, and flight beheld,—
Leaped to the ground, and to his charioteer
Thus spake: “Now, with what speed thou may, get hence;
And to the city take my car and steeds.
The chariot of the king, which he hath left,
Shall bear me through the battle.” Having said,
He stooped; caught from the earth the monarch's helm;
Upon his own head placed it; and at once,
Sprang in the royal chariot. O'er his back,
The gorgeous crimson mantle next he threw;
The golden buckler braced upon his arm;
And thus to Dara: “Now lash on the steeds:
The press is opening, and we yet may save
The rich car, and the horses from the foe.
If he the blazing helm shall see—doubt not
Arbaces will pursue; so shall the king
Escape him; and to us a great reward
Surely will give: while our detested foe
Shall we mock bitterly; and, haply, slay.
Drive therefore on: but, swiftly as thou may,
Turn eastward; and the northern wall approach,—

Skirting it close; for thence the foe keeps back;
Dreading the stone, the arrow, and the spear,
From the high battlement.”

Him Dara heard,
Approving; and, with cool and skilful hand,
The horses guiding, through the living maze
Slowly 'gan wind. But Zimri, turning now,
And shouting, 'gainst Arbaces hurled his lance:
Another then caught up, and poised to throw.

Full on the breast the weapon struck the Mede;
But harmed him not. Nor, though the shout he heard,
Knew he whence came it; for, in combat hot,
That moment stood he: nor, as yet, he knew—
Such the confusion,—that the king had fled:
So that when now, within the royal car,
The diamond-flashing helm, the golden shield,
And crimson vest he saw, nought doubted he
That therein still he rode. The armour, too,
Of Zimri was right splendid to behold;
His stature like the king's. Arbaces thus
By show deceived; and confident that now
The tyrant underneath his arm would fall,—
His spear uplifted, with one righteous blow
Hoping the world to free. But Fate forbade:
For, in that moment, through the opening press,
Arrow-swift darted on the royal car;
And the fell aim was balked. “He flies! he flies!”
Aloud then cried he, “see—the tyrant flies!
Coward! thou canst not 'scape! thine hour is come!”
To Jeroboam then; “Now, now,—away,—
Lash on the horses; let him not escape!”

But Zimri with exulting heart beheld
The Mede pursuing; and to Dara thus;
“The fish hath gorged the bait! See, where he comes,—
Hoping the king to slay! Traitor, and fool!
Ay, madman! rage, and scourge thy wearied brutes.
As well the Sloth might chase the Antelope,
As thy dull beasts our storm-swift steeds pursue!
Meantime the king will 'scape; our stricken host
From this foul pest be freed; and, haply, yet
Drive back the rebels. But, check now the steeds,

Lest he lose sight of us, and turn again;
And so escape me. Yet not overnear
Let him approach: and close beneath the wall
Speed when thou may; lest 'mid the enemy
We be entangled.”

At these words well pleased,
Dara the horses guided cunningly,—
The foe avoiding; keeping still in view
Of the pursuing Mede; till, clearer space
Attaining now, close underneath the wall
Gladly he drove. The Assyrians, looking down,
Knew well the royal car, and let it pass:
But, when the chariot of Arbaces came,
Darts, arrows, stones, let fly.

Not unobserved,
The royal car had from the fight withdrawn:
Chariots, and horse, Medes, and Assyrians, both,—
These for defence, those for pursuit, flew on;
So that, of either host, no few, at length,
Behind the chariot of Arbaces went.

He, nothing heeding, urged upon his way;
And in his heart still said; “The tyrant now
Surely will perish; for the gates are closed;
His valiant captains all are far away.”
And, ever and anon, he cried aloud,
“Behold! his horses flag! Strength have they not
Much longer to fly from me. Full of blood,
High fed, and pampered, soon will they be spent.
Now, Jeroboam, ply the scourge: our steeds
In truth are wearied; but, to toil inured,
And trained for use, not idle pageantry,
Thrice will outwear yon sleek and courtly drones.”

So he: but ever, as they nigher drew,
The royal car sprang from them; for, less swift
The shadow of the storm-cloud sweeps the earth,—
Wearying the eye that strives its course to track,—
Than might the horses of Assyria's king,
To full speed urged. But, with a tightened rein,
Dara still curbed them; fearful lest, too far
Pursuit outstripping, might the Mede despair
To overtake; and thus his dreaded arm

Turn to the fight again. Delaying now,
Now speeding onward, they the impatient Mede
Lured thus to chase them, and the battle quit.

But, in the shadow of the eastern wall
When they turned round; and saw that, save from gleam
Of fire-tinged cloud, before them was dusk night,—
To Dara, Zimri thus: “At slow pace now;
Lest in this gloom he lose us, and return;
And so escape me.”

To his feet, anon,
Upstarting, he looked backward; sharply then,
“Stop! let us listen.”

Gently, but at once,
The car was stayed. Then Dara, too, stood up;
Looked back, and hearkened.

“Gods! he has returned!”
Fiercely cried Zimri. “Yet he shall not 'scape!
Wheel round, and after him!”

But, on his arm
A pressure; in his ear a warning “hush,”
Checked him; and still he listened.

“Hist!” he said;
“Methought I heard the blowing of his steeds. . . .
Again . . . He comes! His giant bulk I see,
'Gainst the red cloud, like some huge hideous god
Of Ethiopia, sculptured from the rock.
Ha—now he sees us: let the coursers go.”

But, when the cars and horse that followed them,
Both Median and Assyrian, had wheeled round
In the thick shadow of the Eastern wall,—
As with one mind, their jaded steeds they curbed;
“For surely hath the king escaped,” they said;
“And farther toil were vain.” So to the fight
Slowly did some return: some slacked the reins,
When they stood still; and on the dewy grass
Let their tired horses feed; themselves, the while,
Their outworn limbs relaxing for repose;
These, in their chariots stretched,—those, on their steeds;
With drooping head and body, a short sleep,

And troubled, snatching.

But Arbaces nought
Relaxed pursuit; though often did he turn,
And look behind; for, fainter, and more faint,
The sounds of conflict came. Within his heart
Still said he, “Surely now the Assyrian host
Must utterly be vanquished; and my arm
Cannot be needed for the victory.
Let me but slay the tyrant; and in him
Will all be overcome. He cannot 'scape
Within the walls; for every gate is closed.
Heaven grant my horses do not fail me now!
Yet, after but short rest, from set of sun
Have they toiled on; and sorely wearied are.
The tyrant's steeds are fresh; but full of blood;
And less to toil inured: so, haply, soon
May they be wearied; and my coursers yet
O'ertake them in their flight. All-ruling Power,
In whose hands are the mighty of the earth
But as the sands which the wind scattereth,
Hear thou my prayer! This despot to my hands
Deliver; and the groaning nations free!”

So he; and, with a cheerful voice, the steeds
Encouraged to their toil. With stamping foot,
Shaking the reins, the driver urged them on.

But vain their labor, had not Zimri now,
In pride and foolishness of heart, resolved
His foe to meet; that, should he slay him not,
He might at least deride, and madden him.
Seeing that from the battle now far off
Were they; and that the Mede no aid had nigh;
Thus in his heart he said; “Traitor, and fool!
Scourge on; scourge till thy stumbling brutes fall down,
And cast thee headlong! The dull owl as well
Might think to outfly the eagle. Pity 'tis
Thy towering aim to slay Assyria's king,
Thus should be mocked. A great renown, no doubt,
From this night's bravery thou dost hope to achieve.
But, haply, thy own murky torch may die,
Where thou didst look to see Assyria's sun
From its bright sphere cast down. Now, far enough

The king hath fled: against thee shall he turn:
Though Zimri's spear within thee, less delight
May give, than thou hadst felt, to see thine own
Rock in thy monarch's heart. Rebel, heed well!
Thy foot upon my neck hath been: look now
That thou thyself be not worse trodden down.
In love thou'st robbed me; in ambition foiled;
But, in fair combat, never hast o'ercome.
Give me, great gods, this pestilence to drive
From face of earth; and if in that same hour
I, too, must fall, triumphant shall I die!”

Resolving thus, to Dara he called out;
“No more we'll fly: turn therefore now the steeds,
That we may meet the rebel; for I feel
That Fate this hour hath given him to my spear.”

This counsel pleased not Dara; for he hoped
The royal car to save: nor willingly
Would he again the terrible Mede confront.
Neither the might of Zimri trusted he;
For well he knew that fury blinded him;
And that, against Arbaces' iron arm,
His utmost force were weak as infancy:
Therefore the steeds he turned not, but replied;
“Surely I may not so unto the king,
For the rich chariot and the steeds account,
Which he hath trusted to me. Think awhile.
When he shall ask, ‘Where be the steeds and car,
The price of realms, which to thy care were left?’
Will it a tale well pleasing to him be,
If I shall say, ‘Thy horses and thy car
Unharmed were brought from fight; but, foolishly,
Though nigh the gate, and safe, again we turned
To meet the foe; and, truly, are they now
A spoil unto Arbaces.’ How shall I
Thus answer to the king?”

The ireful soul
Of Zimri kindled, when these words he heard;
And hotly he replied; “Then, when the car
And horses to the Mede have spoil become,
Let thy tongue so excuse thee. How know'st thou
That unto mine his arm shall not submit?

His steeds and car to me become a spoil?
Art thou afraid to meet him? But, think well:
For, will not the king's anger 'gainst thee rise,
If I shall say to him, ‘Behold, my lord,
The god of battles to my sword and spear
Had the arch-rebel given; but, even then,
Thy charioteer was fearful, and fled on;
And he hath 'scaped us.’ Of a truth, the king
Would send thee to the death. Turn then the car,
For my lance hotly thirsteth for his blood.”

But neither at these words was Dara moved
That peril to meet; and sharply he replied;
“Unto the king alone the servant I;
And of none other will commanded be.
If Fate, indeed, unto thy spear and sword
Hath given the Mede,—then from the car descend,
And go against him; for thou must prevail:
But the king's chariot shall not with thee go;
For, in the fight too oft have I beheld
The rebel's might; and will not tempt it now.”

Still Dara spake when, stamping furiously,
Zimri cried out, “Turn instantly the car,
Thou soft, white-livered boy! or, to thy cost,
Shalt thou be taught, that other might than his,
And nearer, threats thee. Turn, thou dastard, turn,
Or I will strike thee dead!”

By those foul words
To the height incensed, Dara his sword drew forth:
But, in a moment, Zimri snatched the reins,
And hurled him to the ground. With heavy shock
Down fell he, and lay stunned: while, yelling loud,
Zimri, to make the wheel pass over him,
The horses strove to guide. But, scared, they fled:
And when, at length, the madman wheeled them round,
He saw Arbaces, with his panting steeds,
Right toward him driving. Instantly, the reins
Upon the hooks he flung; and, catching up
His spear, stood bending backward for the throw.

That seeing, greatly was the Mede rejoiced;
For his sore wearied steeds drooped piteously;

And he had feared the king at last would 'scape.
Nor, even though now the cars were drawing nigh,
And dawn was brightening,—would he yet have known
How he befooled had been, but that, with laugh
Of bitter mockery, and maniac yell,
Zimri betrayed himself. Too mad to wait
Fit moment for the throw, “Ah dog accursed!”
He bellowed—forward sprang, and hurled his lance.
Sullenly whirring flew the weapon on;
But high above the mark.

Surprised, enraged,
Arbaces saw that he was foiled, and mocked,
And his long labor wasted. Ne'ertheless,
Before him still was one detested wretch,
Deriding him, and glorying in his fraud.
Even in the instant when the truth flashed out,
'Gainst him he hurled his spear. On his right side,
It struck the foe; but from the bright steel glanced:
Yet, such the shock that, backward staggering,
Down in the car he dropped: and, swift as gust
Of rain-charged wind, the terrified coursers flew.

Recovering quickly, Zimri caught the reins;
And, harshly dragging, strove to turn them back.
With cooler hand, the Median charioteer
Soon wheeled his steeds; and, at a rapid pace,
'Gainst him impelled them. But the senseless rage
Of Zimri had ungovernable made
His horses; and they would not meet the foe.
Wide circling, round the chariot of the Mede,
With strong necks proudly arching, still they flew;
Submitting half, but 'gainst the powerful arm
That would control them, half rebellious still.

Arbaces, that beholding, laughed aloud;
And, snatching up his bow, an arrow sent.
The well-aimed shaft, close underneath the chin
Of Zimri passed, and grazed his throat. Slight pain
Felt he; but, at the laughter, double rage.
With harsh thick voice he bellowed to the steeds;
Smote them: and, backward leaning, at the reins
Dragged till his eye-balls started. But, out flew

A second shaft; and, through the mail of steel,
Though slantwise entering, stung him in the side.

Not deep it pierced, yet cutting was the pang:
And, when the gibes and laughter of his foes
Burst forth, his fury to stark madness grew.
Tearing the arrow out, his axe he seized,—
Against the headstrong steeds, with all his strength,
Hurled it,—and, with a maniac's bound, leaped forth.

Upon the lifted forehead of a horse,
The weapon fell; and smote him to the earth.
The frontlet of strong brass prevented wound;
But, stunned, the noble courser, as if dead,
Dropped motionless. His fellows, for a space,
Heavily dragged him on; then paused, and stood,
Foaming, and panting; with erected manes,
And eye-balls wildly flashing.

But, meantime,
Zimri, like tiger from the toils broke loose,
Flew on his enemy. In either hand,
A spear he grasped; the sword was on his thigh:
But, the broad golden buckler of the king,
In rage had he forgotten; for all thought,
Of vengeance solely was; of self-defence,
Oblivious quite. Arbaces, him on foot
Beholding, thus to Jeroboam said:
“Alight thou quickly; and his chariot seize.
The caitiff hath a noble horse struck down;
And now his fellows stir not. With thy sword
Divide the traces, if the steed be slain;
And have all prompt to fly. Then, should I fall,—
Nay, smile not, for to God the fight belongs,—
Linger thou not, a vain respect to pay,
Or useless strife to wage: fly instantly;
And to our hosts the glorious trophy bear.
But, for this miscreant, surely shall he die!”

Thus he, and from the chariot, at a bound,
Sprang to the earth. The sound of his descent
Was like the ring and tramp of mailëd steed,
Starting for battle. On his thigh, the sword;

In his right hand, a spear: but, in his haste,
For his own massive buckler, the light shield
Of Geber he had caught; and knew it not.
Yet Zimri, when he saw the Mede approach,
Nought dreaded,—so all sense in rage was lost.
Gnashing his teeth, his lips with foam besprent,
'Gainst him he flew, and, with a madman's strength,
Hurled forth his lance. Well for Arbaces now
That even the shield of Geber he had brought:
Better had been, if his own massive orb
Had guarded him; for, toward his forehead right
Flew the tempestuous weapon; through the plates
Of steel and brass, with loud crash tore its way;
And 'twixt the eyebrows pierced him.

Slight the wound,
But sharp the sting: from both eyes quickly gushed
A watery stream, which, with the trickling gore
Commingling, filled, and well nigh blinded them.
With his right hand, in haste he wiped away
The darkening fluid; then his spear upraised:
But, instantly the dimness coming back,
He cast it not; for now no other lance
Remained unto him. With a laugh of scorn
And mockery, Zimri his confusion saw;
And, leaping round, with rapid thrust on thrust,
Aimed at his back: but, like a moving cloud,
Dimly Arbaces saw him; and still turned,
The stab evading. Round, and round again,
And to and fro, sprang Zimri; mocking still,
And still, with lance protruded, a fell wound
Aiming to make.

Arbaces, as he might,
Defensive stood; in that most perilous strait,
Cool and collected, as no danger were.
From time to time, with quick hand he wiped off
The blinding moisture; then his dreaded lance,
Threatening, upraised; but still forbore to throw,
Till clearer sight should come: and Zimri still,
When the huge beam uplifted he beheld,

Started away; yet not less quick returned,
The harassing strife to wage.

But now, at length,
Impatient grew the Mede; for still his eyes
With blood and tears were dimmed; and o'er his brain
Confusion strange, and giddiness, 'gan steal,
That seemed as earth and sky were reeling round:
And when, at last,—piercing his leg behind,
Sharply he felt the spear-point of the foe;
And his malicious laughter near him heard,—
Then, by the upper end, his heavy lance
Suddenly grasping,—with a backward stroke,
Chance-driven, he whirled it round. Like wand of ice
On a rock striking, the strong ashen beam
Against the steel-cased warrior shivering flew.
But the thick mail, by that gigantic blow,
Was crushed, and beaten in. Upon the loins
Zimri received it; breathless, blackening, reeled;
Sank tottering on his knees; spread out his hands;
Slid forward; and, face down, lay motionless.

Arbaces, blinded by the trickling blood,
Saw not, as yet, that his strong foe had fallen;
Though well he felt that on no living thing,
Harmless such blow could light. With hasty hand,
His eyes he pressed; drew sword, and glanced around;
But nowhere saw his enemy. Not the less,—
Some cunning wile suspecting,—with quick ear
He listened, tread of foot to catch, or clink
Of moving armour. Not a sound was heard,
Save the dull roaring of the distant fight,
And a near streamlet's ripple. Once again
His eyes he cleared; and, close beside him, saw,
Face down upon the earth, his enemy stretched;
And motionless as death. And, when he stooped,
Gently to turn him, lo! from out his mouth
Ran blood; the earth around him was dyed red!

Then to the streamlet nigh at hand he walked;
From out his eyes the clammy moisture washed;
With the cold crystal laved his burning brow,
Till from the wound no longer oozed the blood:

His hand then cleansed; and, with the hollowed palm,
Scooping the water, drank, and was refreshed.

Scarce had he ended, when the royal car
Drew nigh; and Jeroboam, with glad voice,
Upstanding, cried: “Behold! the noble steed
That was struck down, again is vigorous;
And all are fresh as stags at early morn,
When from their lair upspringing, at the cry
Of dogs, and hunters. Let us then away:
The sky is brightening fast; the car, erelong,
Will from the walls be seen; and haply then
By hosts we may be pressed.” To him the Mede;
“Let not that trouble thee; but follow now.”

That said, toward the fallen Zimri, at swift pace
Advancing, he a moment stood and gazed.
As he had left him, lay the caitiff still:
No limb had moved, nor seemed he to draw breath.
Down stooping then, Arbaces from him took
The gem-starred helm, and on his own head placed;
The lance caught up, and in the chariot flung:
Next, his own car approaching,—his great shield,
Spears, bow, and quiver, darts, and battle-axe,
Swiftly removed; and in the royal car
Orderly placed them: to the gorgeous seat,
Which erst had borne, but never more should bear
Assyria's haughty king,—with light bound then
Upspringing, caught the reins, and briefly thus.
“Haste, Jeroboam; to my chariot mount;
And let us drive together to the field:
For still the din of battle soundeth loud;
And much must yet be done.”

At once to earth
Leaped Jeroboam, and thus answered him.
“Behold, O Prince, thy horses droop the head,
And sorely wearied are: how then with these,
Yet fresh, and swift as eagles, may they go?
Delay not thou, but to the field make speed;
For much thou may'st be needed; while, meantime,
Thy steeds and car will I bring after thee.

Or rather—since the reins at once to guide,
And fight to wage, no safe or pleasant task,—
Shall I not with thee go; and leave behind
Thy chariot? for the horses, of themselves,
After brief rest, may, likely, seek the camp.”

To him the Mede: “Nay, nay, my friend; not so:
My steeds are swift, and strong; and through the fight
Nobly have borne me: they my comrades are;
And from my hands, like playful kids, do feed:
Nay, I do think they love me. Look thee now:
They turn their heads, as though thy words they knew,
And with their eyes besought me. No, my friend;
Not for the Assyrian would I leave my car,
And horses,—to be vaunted as their spoil.
And, recked I not of that, my faithful steeds
Shall not, by my consent, to some harsh man
Become the slaves: but, when their limbs are stiff
With age, and may no longer cheerfully
Their toil perform, shall in rich meadows roam,
Untasked to labor; save, perchance,—should heaven
So bless my love,—some rosy boy to bear,
In easy saunter, by his father's side,
Through our loved native pastures; all the while,
The beauteous mother leaning on my arm,
And the rich music of her eloquent voice,
With his soft prattle mingling. Grant me, gods,
Such bliss to taste; and all a monarch's pomp
Freely would I resign! But ah! I dream!
No love, no bliss domestic, may I hope,
Till weary months, perhaps even lingering years,
Shall have dragged on. Nay, haply, even then
May heaven such boon deny: untimely slain,
My bones may moulder in a foreign land;
And my beloved Hamutah never bless
These long-desiring arms. But, to the gods
My fate I render: be it as they will!
Meantime, not love, but battle summons me;
And I must haste. Then, Jeroboam, thou
My car and horses gently to the camp
Conduct: and fear not but some charioteer,
Erelong, the reins will guide; and leave my arm

Free for the combat.”

Scarcely had he ceased,
When, not an arrow-flight away, they saw
A car advancing rapidly. His spear
Arbaces seized, and stood prepared to cast:
But, as it nigher drew, the well known form
Of Zelek saw, an Arachosian chief.
He also with uplifted lance came on;
For, when the royal chariot, and the steeds,
And jewelled helmet of the king, he saw,—
Nought doubted he the king himself was there.
His arm already, eager for the throw,
Had he drawn backward, when the Mede's clear voice
Startled, and checked him.

“By Almighty Bel!”
Cried Zelek, and his lifted lance let drop:
“Arbaces? Hast thou, then, the tyrant slain,
That in his car thou ridest?”

“Not to me,
The despot hath been given,” replied the Mede;
“Nor know I whether he hath fallen, or 'scaped.
His chariot from the battle I pursued,
Deeming himself therein; but, in his place,
Found Zimri. Him I slew; and from him took
The diamond-flashing helmet, and the spear.
Yonder he lieth: of his other arms,
If thou would'st spoil him, they are thine. But, say,—
Why camest thou hither? and how goes the fight?”

To him then Zelek; “Nothing do I know,
More than thou knowëst; for, in hot pursuit
Of the king's chariot, close beneath the wall,
Beholding thee, I flew to aid the chase.
But, slow to thine my horses; and” . . . .

“Enough,”—
Him interrupting, cried the impatient Mede;
“No longer may I talk: my wearied steeds,
Like thine, need gentle guidance: but the field
Demands me instantly: mount thou my car,
And at slow pace return; thy charioteer,
Thine may bring after. Jeroboam, thus,
With me may go, and rule these steeds of fire,

Which, else, small leisure to my arm will give,
The bow, or spear, to wield.”

“So be it then,”
Zelek replied; and, swiftly on the earth
Alighting, to Arbaces' chariot climbed.
But Jeroboam to the royal car
Cheerfully sprang: the reins and scourge caught up,
And let the horses go. Exultingly,
On the storm-footed steeds, and gorgeous car,
The victor gazed; and burned to plunge in fight.

Not distant from the walls, as they sped on,
Before a gate awaiting, they beheld
A low, mean chariot. In dark mail was clad
The charioteer; but, on his head, a helm,
Of gleaming brass he wore. The face of him
Who at his left hand sat, 'neath helmet black,
And plumeless, was o'ershadowed. Neck to foot,
A sable mantle wrapped him. On his breast,
His head hung heavily; all strength seemed gone.

Even as Arbaces rapidly shot by,
The gate was opened, and the car went in.
They who within it rode, saw not the Mede,—
For toward the city were their faces turned;
Nor knew Arbaces, as they entered there,
That within spear-reach passed Assyria's king!
Loud clanged the closing gate; and to the fight
Flew on the heroic chief.

Zelek, meantime,
At slow pace, in the chariot of the Mede,
Drove after him: but to his charioteer
His own car left; that, after respite brief
For the tired horses, to the camp might he
Gently conduct them.

When now left alone,
Adad, the charioteer, the steeds to rest,
Awhile sat patiently; his thoughts intent
On the past conflict; on what yet might come;
And how himself might fare: but, suddenly,
On Zimri's costly arms, a greedy eye
He fastened; and to spoil him was resolved.

At once down leaping from the car, he ran;

And, stooping, raised him: from his shoulders, first,
The mantle of the king, with careful hand,
Removed, and on the earth beside him laid:
The glittering hawberk next began to unloose,—
When,—by the hiss of whip, and tramp of hoofs,
Aroused,—he raised his head; and, in dismay,
A youthful form in Zelek's car beheld,
Urging the wearied horses. Instantly
On flew he; and, still running, cried aloud,
His steeds and car demanding.

But, with lash,
Loud-stamping foot, and voice encouraging,
Dara the steeds drove on.

From out the car
By Zimri cast, long time had he lain stunned,
As in deep sleep: and when,—recovering sense,
And cautiously round gazing,—he beheld
The combat, and its issue,—still he lay,
Powerless to render aid: but when, at length,
Arbaces with the chariots twain had gone;
And in the car of Zelek now remained
Adad alone,—then 'gan his thoughts devise,
How of his chariot to despoil the foe;
And to the city bear it. But, alas!
Nor bow, nor spear, nor shield remained to him!
His sword alone, brief space away, he saw,
Crept on; and seized it. Yet, of what avail!
How, 'gainst a charioteer full armed, might he,
With that slight weapon, stand! Still, not the less,
Resolved he was to prove it. From the ground
Rising at once, with noiseless foot he walked;
And, as he went, within himself thus said:
“The panting of the horses must his ear
To my soft footsteps deafen. Could I reach,
Unseen, behind the car; one sudden spring,
One rapid downright blow, might finish all.
But, should he hear, or see me, ere I strike;
Or, should the stroke, if given, on his steel casque,
Or sword-proof mail alight, and harm him not,—
What waits me then? I know not: death, perchance!
Nehushta, thou would'st mourn me: and the king

A sigh might heave: but, 'mid the general doom
That overhangs us all,—the drowning fly
In the broad river, not less noticed sinks,
Than would my little torch of life go out.
Yet, come what may come, I the event will try.”

Within two spear-lengths of the chariot now
He stood; and with his eye the distance scanned,
The perilous leap intending,—when, at once,
Down to the earth sprang Adad; nor looked round;
But, bent on spoil, to the fallen Zimri ran.

Him, busied with his task, when Dara saw,
Joy filled his heart; into the car he leaped;
Seized rein and scourge; wheeled round; and the tired steeds
Sharply urged onward. But their stiffened limbs
With difficulty moved they: to the lash,
With groans they answered, and went reeling on.

Far swifter Adad flew; and to the car
Well nigh had reached,—when Dara, on the hooks
Flinging the reins, seized lance, turned round, and hurled.

Furiously running, Adad saw it not,
So sudden was the throw: his rapid foot
Seemed his own death to seek; for, at full speed,
Against the flying spear, himself flew on;
And in his throat, above the collar's rim,
The glittering point received. Right through it went;
The life-vein tore, and started out behind.
One sinking step he took; then drooped his head;
Drooped every limb; and, heavy as a clod,
His armour on the soft grass clanging dull,
Down fell he, dead.

One moment Dara gazed;
Then leaped to earth; drew from the corse his spear;
The radiant armour stripped; and in the car
Upflung it; mounted next; and, at slow pace,
No enemy fearing, toward the city moved.

Yet heavy was his soul; for of the king,
His loved Nehushta, the majestic queen,
And of that mighty empire passing by,
Darkly he pondered. Motionless, at last,
With cheek upon his palm reclined, he sat;

Nor the tired steeds urged more; for they had stayed,
And from the dewy grass, with outstretched tongue,
The grateful moisture gathered. “Let them rest,”
Within himself he said; “food, drink, and sleep,
Will all their strength bring back: but, when again
Shall mighty Nineveh her head uplift,
Queen of all nations! when will her fallen king
The worshipped of the earth again become!
And, for myself, how now shall I appear
Before him, if the battle he have 'scaped,
And in his eye severe excuse myself,
For that the priceless chariot, and the steeds,
To me entrusted, are the Median's spoil!
Ah! what hath not that frantic madman done!
Yet he himself hath drunk the bitterness
Of his own cup; by his own blow hath fallen!
And how, with more than life, can man atone!
Yet life, perchance, may linger in him yet:
And, if his wound I bind, and to his home
Can living bear him,—still might he be healed:
So should a strong arm for the king be saved;
And he would witness, even against his will,
In all I did; for, if in words he lie,
Yet would his wounds gainsay him.”

Thinking thus,
He started up, turned round, and backward looked.
Not far away, soon spying what he sought,—
He drew the rein, and toward the imaged corse
Drove anxiously: but when, beside it close,
He checked the steeds, lo! Zimri from the earth
His head uplifted; and, with haggard eye,
Looked in his face, and knew him.

From the car
Sprang Dara; leaned above him; on one knee
Sank hastily; and, with a tender hand,
His heavy head sustained. “Alas!” he said,
“Fate hath dealt hard with thee! But, tell me now,
Where is thy wound, that I may bind it up.”

Him Zimri answered not; but, with harsh voice,
Though feeble, and oft interrupted breath,
Thus questioned him: “Hast thou, then, slain the Mede,

That in his car thou ridest? Now, if so,
Lead me, that I may tread upon his neck.”

The last words gurgled in his throat: he ceased,
Choking with blood; and sank again to earth.

Still, with a tender hand, from off the ground,
Dara his head upheld: and, in a while,
When better he could listen, answered him.
“The Mede, alas! hath not in battle fallen;
Nor in his chariot ride I; but in that
Of Zelek; for his charioteer I slew;
And captured it. But, for the rebel chief,
Even in the chariot of Assyria's king,
Boasting his spoil, triumphantly rides he.”

As if a snake had stung him, at these words
Through Zimri ran quick shudder. Struggling hard,
His head he lifted, and with both hands raised
His body from the earth; but sank again;
And, with a slow and painful utterance, cried;
“Loosen my corslet,—let me draw free breath.
And take the armour quickly from my loins;
For the crushed steel sore galleth.”

Tenderly,
Dara the corslet slackened: from his loins
The battered mail released. Yet, still displeased,
Zimri, with peevish voice, by many a groan
Impeded, and a short and painful breath,
Ungrateful as he was, upbraided him.
“The easier task thou choosest: safer much,
The wound to tend, than to prevent the blow:
To look on, safer than to share the fight.
Why cam'st thou not to aid me, when thy spear
Me might have saved, and laid the rebel low?”

So he; yet Dara, at his bitter words,
Would not be angered; but thus, soothingly;
“Talk not, I pray thee, now; nor feed the wrath
That ever burns within thee; for, in truth,
So would'st thou bleed to death. If in the fight
I stood not by thee,—whose then was the blame,
That I lay stunned, and helpless, on the ground?
If for thy aid my spear was not at hand,—
Was mine the fault, that unto me remained

Nor spear, nor shield,—which in the chariot thou
Hadst borne away? Nor even was the sword
Within my reach; for, when thy friendly arm
Hurled me to earth, far from my hand it flew.
And would'st thou, feeble thus, and weaponless,
That, 'gainst the man most dreaded upon earth,
I, a slight youth, should stand? When the wild bull
Before the lion falls, would'st thou the hind
Should go against him? But of this no more!
Into the chariot let me help thee now;
That in the city we may refuge find,
Ere farther ill befall.”

So mildly he;
Nor Zimri answer made. To climb the car,
With careful hand, then Dara aided him:
Rose; took the reins; and, at the slowest pace
Of the worn steeds,—to Zimri heedful still,—
Drove toward the nearest gate.

As on they went,—
High over head, the clanging wings were heard
Of ravenous vultures; in the reddening dawn,
To their vast banquet hasting. The stern din
Of battle, like a distant cataract,
Unceasing roared: and, as before the gate,
Named of Semiramis, at length they paused,—
The clear song of a viewless lark was heard,
To the rose-tinted clouds upsoaring glad.

Meantime, the havoc and confusion dire
Of warring nations, to its height had reached.
For, when Sardanapalus,—terror-crushed,
At the on-coming of the dreaded Mede,—
Cowering, had left his chariot,—rose a cry:
“The king is slain! the gods are with our foes!
Fly to the city, and make fast the gates!”

Thousands, and tens of thousands, spread the cry:
O'er all the field it flew; and, like dry dust
Before the wind, the Assyrians turned, and fled.

From her high tower, with bitterness of soul,
The queen had marked the diamond-flaming helm,

Smitten to earth; and that dire cry had heard.
But, with intent eye gazing, soon again,
Up to the car she saw a warrior spring,—
The royal helmet wearing; on his back
The gorgeous crimson mantle of the king;
And doubted not—for, on the wall below,
Fires numerous dazzled sight,—that he it was,
From chance-fall risen unhurt. But, by a cloud
Of foes was he hemmed in; and, in brief time,
'Mid the great whirl was lost! With frantic voice,
Upon the soldiers, and the chiefs, she called,
Their king to rescue: with uplifted hands,
And anguished eyes, on Heaven called out to save.

But, 'mid the ceaseless thunders of the fight,
No man might hear her; and the gods, invoked,
No answer gave. Fate o'er the city lowered!

Vainly did each brave captain of the host
Upon the soldiers call, to face the foe!
Vainly themselves, defying all things, leaped
Amid the torrent of their enemies,
To conquer, or to fall!

His noble heart,
With shame, and grief, and anger, nigh to burst,—
Unceasingly did Salamenes cry,
The courage of his soldiers to inflame;
Their failing arms to nerve. From place to place,
Frantic he flew: now 'mid the foe dashed deep;
Now turned the flying back: exhorted now;
Now sued; now praised; now promised, and now shamed.
Nebaioth, too, and ardent Jerimoth,
Like running fires were seen about the field:
And, with their ponderous cars, Jehoshaphat,
And Michael, strove the dreadful rout to stay.
Thousands of valiant captains, too, whose fame
Sleeps with their ashes, nobly struggled then:
But the dread doom was fixed: in vain their toil;
Their blood in vain!

As, by the northern wall,
So, 'twixt the western, and the Tigris swift,

Hotly the conflict raged. Even as a storm,
Within a narrow mountain-pass pent up,
With maddest fury rages,—huge gnarled oaks
Uprooted fall: rock-pinnacles are rent;
And crashing, leaping, thunder down the steep,—
So, chariots, horse, and foot,—a mingled mass,
Victors, and vanquished,—rushed the human flood.
Thousands, borne down, beneath the chariot wheels,
And foot of man, and steed, were trod, and crushed:
Into the river thousands, shrieking loud,
Were irresistibly urged! In vain, in vain
They struggle! By the turbulent stream o'erwhelmed,
Down to the bottom sink they. Toward the bridge
Ran myriads: but the spearmen of the Medes,
A wood of lances pointed at their breasts,—
Passage denying: and the bowmen stood
By thousands, with the shaft upon the string,
Destruction threatening.

Dawned at length the day;
And, as the morning brightened, more and more
Stood out the terrible scene. No longer now
The Assyrians, from the city issuing, strove
To turn the hopeless fight. Loud cries went up,
“Shut fast the gates, ye men of Nineveh!
Shut fast the gates; or we shall perish all!”

But, who were they that might those portals close?
As up the caverns of the ocean-cliffs,
When a strong tempest hath upturned the deep,—
The billows, rapid as a steed in flight,
Drive roaring, shaking to their base the rocks,—
So furiously, through every wide-flung gate,
Chariots, and horse, and foot, by myriads rushed.
Horribly jammed together, in each pass,
Thousands were crushed; the ground was paved with dead.

Meantime, the citizens, and the armed men
Who had the fight escaped,—from the high walls
Hurled down upon the assailants spears, and stones:
And from each tower above the gates, poured forth
Thick flight of arrows, spears, and brazen darts.

But, as dawn reddened, on the northern wall
A distant cry was heard, “The king! the king!
The king of kings in his bright chariot comes;
And with him a great force!” Louder, more loud,
Came on the cry; and, in a trembling hope,
Eastward were myriads of wild faces turned.

The queen from her high tower gazed breathlessly;
Fell on her knees; her eyes, and trembling hands,
To heaven uplifted: on the merciful gods
For succour called; sprang up; and looked again.

Still, on the northern wall, more loud came on
The voice of multitudes—“The king! the king!”
And, as the shouts increased,—from out the gates,
With hope revived, again the Assyrians poured.

But, backward drew the Medes; and toward the east,
Gazed anxiously;—for, troubled grew their hearts;
And, man to man, with countenance blank, they said;
“Where is Arbaces? hath he fallen, then,
Before the king? and comes the conqueror
With a new host to snatch the victory?”

Still more and more upon the wall ran on
The exulting cry, “The king! the king doth come!”
And still from out the gates the Assyrians poured;
The Medes still backward drew. Yet, not a lance
On either side was cast, nor arrow shot,
Nor sword uplifted. On the northern plain,
Battle had ceased to breathe.

But, not the less,
Along the western wall, and by the bank
Of arrowy Tigris, raged the conflict still:
For, there the cry was heard not,—so much more
Resounded the dire roaring of the fight.
Still through the gates pressed in the fugitives;
Still were they slain, and trampled down; and still
The rolling flood with heaps of dead was gorged.

The queen herself, at length, beheld, and cried
Exultingly, “The king! the king! the king!
I see his chariot, and his milk-white steeds;
And the sun-flashing helmet on his head!
Shout, men of Nineveh! shout out aloud,

For your deliverance cometh!”

Like the ring
Of a clear-speaking clarion, was her voice
Heard on the battlement; and on the plain;
And up at once was sent a deafening roar
From the rejoicing myriads. On the wall,
And through the city, like a thunder-peal,
Long rolling, echoing, and re-echoing still,—
From point to point of the wide-arching heaven,
Ran on the glad acclaim.

His burning brow,
Bright inexpressibly, above earth's rim
Now 'gan the sun uplift; but not a hand,
And not a voice, to worship him was raised!
Upon the coming chariot, and the helm,
Fire flinging round, that almost might appear
Part of his blazing orb, all eyes were fixed.
The hot breath from their nostrils, and the smoke
Of the fast flying steeds, as in a mist,
The chariot wrapped: and the yet rising sun,
Fierce glory poured behind,—so that no eye,
Though straining eagerly, might clearly see.
But, like a meteor gliding on the earth,
Swiftly it came; and every moment grew,
Till to their gaze its bulk enormous seemed;
The horses like colossal statues, hewn
From marble, but with life instinct, appeared;
And he that rode, like to a giant of old,
Before the fountains of the deep broke up,
To overwhelm the earth.

Among themselves,
Then said the Assyrians; “Can this be the king?”
And others whispered; “Hath not Nimrod risen,
To save his city?” Many then cried out,
“The god! the god! Bel hath himself come down,
In his bright arms, and in his car of fire,
Our enemies to consume!”

Amazed, confused,
Silent, and motionless, the Medes beheld:
For now the chariot all alone advanced,

And who was he that singly dared come on,
In arms against a host?

Still more and more
The marvel grew; and louder, and more loud
The clamor on the walls, and on the plain.
And, as the chariot rapidly shot by,
And the king's car and horses well were seen,—
Gate after gate flew wide; and multitudes
Poured forth, to follow. Also, from the throng
Of the Assyrian legions, joyfully,
To meet it a great multitude went on;
Still crying as they went, “Long live the king!
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!”

But, in the void 'twixt both astonished hosts,
The storm-winged chariot drove: and, like the peal
Of the loud thunder, over all the din
Of acclamation, rose the mighty voice
Of him that therein rode. Within the car
Upstanding suddenly, toward the Medes he looked;
Lifted his spear, and cried triumphantly,
“Arbaces!”

When that name the Assyrians heard;
And when, turned on them now, that countenance dread,
Too well they saw,—ran through them freezing fear.
“The king is slain,” they cried, “and in his car
The rebel comes! Fly to the city, fly!”

The Medes cried also, “Fallen is the king!
His chariot, and his horses, and his arms,
Are taken for a spoil! Speed through the gates.”

As, by the breath of the autumnal storm,
The seared leaves of the forest numberless
In thick clouds are driven onward,—heap on heap,
Tossing and whirling, rapidly they fly,—
Even so, before the onset of their foes,
Throng upon throng, the Assyrians wildly fled.

But, on the wall, the horrible cry arose,
And in the city, “Haste, and close the gates!
Shut fast the gates! Shut out both foe and friend!
Else will the Medes be on us; and our wives
Be taken for their concubines; our sons

Become their slaves; and every agëd man,
And every child, will perish by the sword!
Fly, fly, and shut the gates!”

Then were men's hearts
By terror hardened; and, with one accord,
Down from the walls, and from the crowded streets,
Flew thousands to the work. The hinges groaned;
Heavily clashing, rang the brazen gates;
And, ere the foremost of the flying throng
The wall had neared,—bolt, bar, and massive chain,
Leaped to their place; and foe, and friend, alike,
Remorselessly shut out!

Rose then a cry
Of selfish gladness all along the wall,
And in the city: but, upon the plain,
Yells, prayers, and imprecations dread were heard.
Wildly the routed shrieked; and, with their arms,
Struck on the brazen barriers,—screaming out,
“Fling wide the gates, or we shall perish all!”

Some, cursing bitterly, their swords, or spears,
Against the battlement hurled; some, 'mid the foe,
In frenzy of despair, plunged—death to seek:
Myriads to east, or west, fled franticly:
But most, resolved not unavenged to die,
Fought bravely to the last; and, dying, sent
Their curse upon the city.

Till the sun
One fourth o'er heaven's broad road his race had sped,
Sounded the hurly of that mortal strife.
In vain Arbaces had lift up his voice,—
For his great heart was sorrowful,—to stay
The fury of the slaughter: vainly rang
The signal-trumpets,—in that uproar dire
Scarce heard, and unregarded,—for revenge
Maddened the Medes. At dawn had it been seen,—
And speedily through all the host made known,—
That, of the myriads who had crossed the bridge,
By their great leader spared; and who, to death,
For them, and for their holy cause, had vowed
Faithful to stand,—remained not now one man!

Vindictive then, and hard as stone, their hearts!
Nor even their god-like leader could assuage
The fierceness of their vengeance. To his voice,
And to the trumpet-summons, a deaf ear
Remorselessly they turned; and still slew on.

At length the foot was wearied, the arm weak,
The breath was spent: the gasping fugitive,
Voiceless, cried out no more; no more the shout
Of the pursuer sounded: steeds fell down,
Nor strove again to rise: the sword, and axe,
Too heavy for the arm, with toil were raised,
And, falling, wounded not: no strength remained
The spear to cast; no hand could draw the bow:
And, when the trumpet-signals, and the voice
Of their indignant chief,—still calling out
To stay the battle,—better could be heard,
Quickly the struggle ended.

Through the gates,—
Brief time elapsed,—the Assyrians feebly crept;
For friends within had opened stealthily;
Nor could their foes prevent.

The outworn Medes,
Beneath the shade of trees, or by the slope
Of Tigris' bank, or underneath the wall,—
Wherever standing when the tempest died,—
Sank on the earth at once,—for rest and sleep,
Greedy as famished wretch for savoury food.
Riders dismounted, and along the ground
Stretched their tired limbs: their horses bent the knee,
And rolled beside them: from their cars came down
The charioteers, and loosed the sinking steeds:
Then horse and man together pressed the earth.

The Assyrians also, who within the walls
Had safety found,—by like severe control
Subdued, sank helpless; sleep the sovereign good
Of life, esteeming all.

So, for long hours,
While the bright god of day his fiery beams
Poured down,—to life, and joy all things of earth
Actively stirring,—the sore wearied hosts,
Forgetful of their strife, slept heavily.