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ALEXANDER,
Over the Body of Clytus.
The Monarch, Conqueror, Ammon's son,
With thousand slaves around;
The nations, kings, his arm had won,
From earth's remotest bound;
What does he on the marble floor,
And who is he, he weepeth over?
With thousand slaves around;
The nations, kings, his arm had won,
From earth's remotest bound;
What does he on the marble floor,
And who is he, he weepeth over?
No more the king—slave of the slaves,
Who sway even while they bow;
He glories not in nation's graves,
Than they, more anguish'd now;
His life's preserver he has slain,
When will he meet such friend again.
Who sway even while they bow;
He glories not in nation's graves,
Than they, more anguish'd now;
His life's preserver he has slain,
When will he meet such friend again.
The sycophants, who worship, fear,
He cannot feel their love;
To Clytus, was his monarch dear,
All other men above;
He fought, when courtier-slaves had fled,
And died, because his king was dead.
He cannot feel their love;
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All other men above;
He fought, when courtier-slaves had fled,
And died, because his king was dead.
The monarch spoke not, as beside
His soldier's form he bow'd,
But on his purple robes of pride,
Large drops of anguish flow'd:
And those around, with awe beheld,
As his dark eye fill'd—and his bosom swell'd.
His soldier's form he bow'd,
But on his purple robes of pride,
Large drops of anguish flow'd:
And those around, with awe beheld,
As his dark eye fill'd—and his bosom swell'd.
And his hand put back the golden cup,
With nectar brimming high;
And his heart was full, and his eye look'd up,
Through the vaulted roofs, to the sky;
Few were the tears that dark eye shed,
For his heart was deep, and his bosom bled.
With nectar brimming high;
And his heart was full, and his eye look'd up,
Through the vaulted roofs, to the sky;
Few were the tears that dark eye shed,
For his heart was deep, and his bosom bled.
“My friend,” he cried, “that Ammon's son,
Would I could deem, had struck in vain!
And I would give the world I've won,
To see thee, hear thee speak again;
Thou who would'st speak, my only friend,
When other slaves but dared to bend.
Would I could deem, had struck in vain!
And I would give the world I've won,
To see thee, hear thee speak again;
Thou who would'st speak, my only friend,
When other slaves but dared to bend.
That dark fatality, which led,
My madman steel to mine own heart,
Which sought it, when Parmenio bled,
Of my own fame that better part;
And now to thine, old man, hast given,
The quittance, which mine own has riven.
My madman steel to mine own heart,
Which sought it, when Parmenio bled,
Of my own fame that better part;
And now to thine, old man, hast given,
The quittance, which mine own has riven.
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Take hence the purple, rend that wreath,
Ye men of Persia, from my brow;
And hence, I need no courtier's breath,
To make me feel, how worse than low,
I've prostrated myself, and he
Who warn'd me, trust not such as ye.
Ye men of Persia, from my brow;
And hence, I need no courtier's breath,
To make me feel, how worse than low,
I've prostrated myself, and he
Who warn'd me, trust not such as ye.
Leave me alone, I would not weep,
O'er valour, truth, when ye are by;
Hence! or my javelin shall leap,
And ye may yet like Clytus die,
Not wept like him, and now I know,
His worth, when he himself is low.
O'er valour, truth, when ye are by;
Hence! or my javelin shall leap,
And ye may yet like Clytus die,
Not wept like him, and now I know,
His worth, when he himself is low.
Ay to Parmenio, Philip, go,
Thou best of traitors for my good;
Tell them, victorious o'er each foe,
I bathe my weapon in the blood,
Of those who gave me all my boast,
And only valued, when they're lost.”
Thou best of traitors for my good;
Tell them, victorious o'er each foe,
I bathe my weapon in the blood,
Of those who gave me all my boast,
And only valued, when they're lost.”
Alone, the monarch wept, unseen,
But he came forth again—
And there were marks, where tears had been,
As, on the mountain, rain:
His brow had lost the pride it wore,
And, 'till he died he smiled no more.
But he came forth again—
And there were marks, where tears had been,
As, on the mountain, rain:
His brow had lost the pride it wore,
And, 'till he died he smiled no more.
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