Scene V.—The Lake of Pallacopas, near Babylon.
Alexander in the Royal Barge, attended by Artabazus,
Seleucus, Antigonus, Peucestas, and others.
Alex.
Ten thousand men at break of day, Peucestas!
The spot is there! we'll cut through yonder rock:
O'er-pround Euphrates there shall find a channel—
To work ere noon!
Peu.
It shall be ordered, sir.
Sel.
A mystery of sadness girds this region:
Those trackless wastes, half water and half land,
Those low-hung, hueless clouds above them streaming,
The piping of the willow-bending wind,
Upon the horizon far yon city-wall—
Some curse is on this spot!
Alex.
Misrule's that curse:
In ignorant kindness noxious as in hate:
The country drowned, the city drained of waters—
Old Xerxes did his work! Look well around:
We need a fortress next, wherein to entrench
The warders of our strait. I see a crag:
Steer to its base.
Art.
A tomb it is of kings.
Alex.
Those slaves whom late we passed knee-deep in water
With bloodshot eyes half blinded by the glare
And light thin frames, were not of stock Chaldæan:
Whence came they?
Art.
Sire, from Hierosolyma:
The Assyrian razed their city, burned their Temple,
To exile dragged them—greybeards, women, babes:
In fifty years the Assyrian's empire fell:
Cyrus, the Persian, loved that Hebrew people
And loosed them from their bonds. Some few remained:
Their progeny are those you marked but now.
Alex.
A vision rose before me as I watched them:
I too have stood in Hierosolyma:
My will was fixed to look on it once more:
Chance, or some humour, on my way from Egypt—
Near it I marched—made hindrance, and I passed.
Art.
Sir, you have shown much kindness to that people:
A race that scarce can live, yet never dies:
They are always ill at ease. Their ancient Law
Forbade their task—rebuilding Belus' temple:—
'Tis six leagues off, yet there it rises plain:
Your clemency vouchsafed a licit toil:
They deepen yonder channel.
Alex.
Better thus:
The Persians scorn the Assyrians, they, the Hebrews:
Between the rival races, and their gods,
I hold the balance just. What strain is that?
The Persian and the Babylonian barges
Since morn have followed mine with hymn, or chaunt:
This has a different note.
The Song.
We sate beside the Babylonian river:
Within the conqueror's bound, weeping we sate:
We hung our harps upon the trees that quiver
Above the onrushing waters desolate.
A song they claimed—the men our task who meted—
“A song of Sion sing us, exile band!”
For song they sued, in pride around us seated:
How can we sing it in the Stranger's land?
Alex.
That song's a dirge, with notes of anger in it:
I hate the grief that nothing is save grief.
Art.
Sire, these are maidens of that Hebrew race.
Sel.
They have passed the osier banks. Once more that strain!
The Song.
If I forget thee, Salem, in thy sadness,
May this right hand forget the harper's art!
If I forget thee, Salem, in my gladness,
My tongue dry up, and wither, like my heart!
Daughter of Babylon, with misery wasted,
Blest shall he be, the man who hears thy moans;
Who gives thee back the cup that we have tasted;
Who lifts thy babes, and hurls them on the stones!
Alex.
That race can boast a history. Search its annals!
Sel.
Our Grecian songs, for all their grace and light,
Measured with such were as a wind-tossed tress
Matched with yon sailing rack.
Art.
A galley comes—
Those Babylonian braggarts make their revel.
Chaldæan Song.
Belus shall reign! Higher, each day, and higher
Rises his temple. Crouch, pale Hebrew slave!
Proud Persian lord, thy never-quenchèd fire
Trembles like death-flames o'er a murderer's grave.
Ashur, rejoice!—
Alex.
The ages pass, like winds;
The old wrong remains, rooted like tombs and moves not:
All may be done through Time; yet Time does nought.
Let kings look well to that. We have reached our goal.
Is that a tomb?
Art.
The Assyrian monarchs, sir,
Squandered their lives in banquets, yet desired
A solitary precinct for their graves:
They reverenced Death:—the Greeks but deck and mock it.
Those dusky crypts that pierce the sedge-girt rock,
Are sepulchres of kings.
[As Alexander turns, a gust blows his Causia
into the water. The diadem that girdled
it remains suspended on the reeds at the
base of the tomb. A sailor plunges into
the lake, and swims to the tomb, but, in his
desire to keep the royal diadem dry, inadvertently
sets it on his head. Thus crowned
he re-enters the royal barge.
A Sailor.
The omen's ill!
2nd Sailor.
The omen's black as night!
Sel.
(drawing his sword).
I'll drown it in his blood!
Alex.
Give him a talent
In guerdon for his bath and his good will,
And, when we land, the scourge, to teach him manners.
Omens! That priest Chaldæan spake of such:
Passing this morn his city-gates, I laughed:
I wore a cope of lead three months:—to-day
I am stronger than at Tyre!
Sel.
May it please you, sir,
The wind hath changed: we need three hours, or more,
To reach the city.
Alex.
Mark that spot: 'tis there
I build my fortress. Now to Babylon: haste!
Drops fall apace: yon circlets on the mere
Denote them heavy. Hark, a distant thunder!
The heat is changed to cold. Our Artabazus
Is old for summer drenchings.
Art.
Twenty years
Press down my seventy. Sire, I should have passed
Long since, yet may outlive the three years' child.
