 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
186
SARDANAPALUS TO HIS COURTIERS
Aye, point me to the battered helm—
The pennon soiled and worn,
By monarchs of Assyria's realm,
In prouder ages borne.
Point out the spoil—the glittering gem—
The jewelled crest—the diadem,
From knightly temples torn.
'Tis vain—to me those trophies show
How pride can mock at human woe.
The pennon soiled and worn,
By monarchs of Assyria's realm,
In prouder ages borne.
Point out the spoil—the glittering gem—
The jewelled crest—the diadem,
From knightly temples torn.
'Tis vain—to me those trophies show
How pride can mock at human woe.
Ye say my sires were glorious, when
The falchion never slept;
When o'er each field of slaughtered men
A thousand mothers wept;
When thoughts of conquest stifling all
Of pity for a nation's fall,
Their hardened legions swept
Across the realms of humbled kings
Like the destroying angel's wings.
The falchion never slept;
When o'er each field of slaughtered men
A thousand mothers wept;
When thoughts of conquest stifling all
Of pity for a nation's fall,
Their hardened legions swept
Across the realms of humbled kings
Like the destroying angel's wings.
And hence their glory—hence their fame
A never-setting sun!
So let it be—no meed I claim,
For aught that I have done—
I ask no temple's haunted gloom,
No sculptured arch—no blazoned tomb,
When my career is run,
I seek no reverence—be it shown
To my stern ancestors alone.
A never-setting sun!
So let it be—no meed I claim,
For aught that I have done—
I ask no temple's haunted gloom,
No sculptured arch—no blazoned tomb,
When my career is run,
I seek no reverence—be it shown
To my stern ancestors alone.
Enough for me if I can die
With blessings on my head—
Enough for me if beauty's sigh
Is whispered round my bed;
And tears which grateful hearts bestow
Upon the soothers of their woe
Be there in silence shed.
Such be my meed—I ask no more
Of memory, when my course is o'er.
With blessings on my head—
Enough for me if beauty's sigh
Is whispered round my bed;
And tears which grateful hearts bestow
Upon the soothers of their woe
Be there in silence shed.
Such be my meed—I ask no more
Of memory, when my course is o'er.
Boston Statesman, May 17, 1828
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |