The Last Days of Herculaneum And Abradates and Panthea: Poems by Edwin Atherstone |
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ABRADATES AND PANTHEA.
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 | The Last Days of Herculaneum |  |
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ABRADATES AND PANTHEA.
The beautiful and touching story upon which the following short poem is founded occurs in Xenophon's life of Cyrus the Great.
Panthea, a woman of incomparable beauty, and wife to Abradates, king of the Susans, was taken captive by Cyrus; who, instead of using the privilege then claimed by conquerors, treated her with the greatest delicacy and kindness. This generous forbearance came to the ears of Abradates, who, in the fulness of his gratitude, went over with his forces to Cyrus, and commanded under him the scythe-armed chariots in that great and decisive battle against Crœsus which was fought in the vale of Thymbra.
Abradates was killed, and Panthea in grief and despair stabbed herself and expired upon his body.
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'Twas on the morning of that fateful day
When Cyrus met on Thymbra's spacious plain
The mighty host by wealthy Crœsus led.—
Awful the hour when through the expectant camp
The word was given to harness for the fight
For warlike was the foe; four hundred times
A thousand was his strength; in horsemen strong,
And strong in Egypt's yet unconquer'd bands;—
But Cyrus fear'd not, though his Persain men
Not half their number told; for they were bred
To hardship and fatigue; on coarsest fare
They fed, despising luxury and sloth,
And had been used to victory.—So he made
A sacrifice to God, and bade them arm
To march against the foe.
When Cyrus met on Thymbra's spacious plain
The mighty host by wealthy Crœsus led.—
Awful the hour when through the expectant camp
The word was given to harness for the fight
For warlike was the foe; four hundred times
A thousand was his strength; in horsemen strong,
And strong in Egypt's yet unconquer'd bands;—
But Cyrus fear'd not, though his Persain men
Not half their number told; for they were bred
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They fed, despising luxury and sloth,
And had been used to victory.—So he made
A sacrifice to God, and bade them arm
To march against the foe.
Then might be seen
O'er all the stirring camp the polish'd arms
Reflecting from the newly risen sun
Millions of sparkling points. Pale looks were there,
Yet not of terror, but that feeling high
That thrills the soldier's frame, and lifts the soul
To dare all possible things: and busy hands
Were buckling armour on:—and swords were drawn
And sheath'd again, and many-colour'd plumes
Nodded o'er brazen helmets:—steeds in mail
Pranced underneath their gorgeous riders, clad
In fiery scarlet and in glittering brass:—
And there were chariots, dreadful to behold,
With wheels scythe-arm'd: and the horses were clothed
In trappings arrow-proof; two ranks of four
Abreast, whirl'd the dire fury through the field.—
O'er all the stirring camp the polish'd arms
Reflecting from the newly risen sun
Millions of sparkling points. Pale looks were there,
Yet not of terror, but that feeling high
That thrills the soldier's frame, and lifts the soul
To dare all possible things: and busy hands
Were buckling armour on:—and swords were drawn
And sheath'd again, and many-colour'd plumes
Nodded o'er brazen helmets:—steeds in mail
Pranced underneath their gorgeous riders, clad
In fiery scarlet and in glittering brass:—
And there were chariots, dreadful to behold,
With wheels scythe-arm'd: and the horses were clothed
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Abreast, whirl'd the dire fury through the field.—
There was a prince, whose wife in former war
Was captive made by Cyrus;—and her charms
Exceeded those of woman;—yet her mind
Was fairer than her beauty; and her soul
Grew to her husband.—Cyrus saw, but scorn'd
Such loveliness and virtue by a touch
Unhallow'd to pollute; and when her lord
Knew this forbearance, smit with gratitude,
To Cyrus with his forces he repair'd
And vow'd eternal friendship:—and that vow
Till death he kept.—The armed cars that day
Commanded he in fight:—his lovely bride
Was named Panthea;—Abradates he.—
Was captive made by Cyrus;—and her charms
Exceeded those of woman;—yet her mind
Was fairer than her beauty; and her soul
Grew to her husband.—Cyrus saw, but scorn'd
Such loveliness and virtue by a touch
Unhallow'd to pollute; and when her lord
Knew this forbearance, smit with gratitude,
To Cyrus with his forces he repair'd
And vow'd eternal friendship:—and that vow
Till death he kept.—The armed cars that day
Commanded he in fight:—his lovely bride
Was named Panthea;—Abradates he.—
When now the cuirass by his nation worn
Of quilted linen, he was putting on,
She brought him, smiling at his pleased surprise,
For by her secret orders all was done,
A helmet, bracers, bracelets, all of gold,
Coat-armour to his length, and feathery plume
Of vivid purple dye.—Her delicate hands
Assisted to array him, while the tears
She could not stay roll'd down her beauteous cheek,
And sighs unheard by him came thick and deep.
Yet, though she wept, she urged him to the race
Of glory. Think, oh! think,—she said,—
What we to Cyrus owe:—his prisoner, I
Was to his pleasures forfeit;—who of men
But he, would for a captive woman's tears
His privilege have waved?—for nor by word,
Nor loose regard, did he the blush of shame
Call to my cheek;—but with such chasten'd love
As to a sister tender brothers show,
He cheer'd my sorrowing soul; nor ransom ask'd
For liberty restored that nicest mind
Had doubted ere it gave. I told him then
How in thy breast such noble deeds would wake
A gratitude as noble:—and that life
Would in thy thinking be too short a term
To lavish in his service.—Onward then;—
And by thy deeds this day let Cyrus know
How thou dost prize his gift. But oh! my love,
When the hot fury of the fight would urge
To things that reason shrinks from; then, oh! then,
Think on Panthea:—think thou seest her left
A wretched widow sinking o'er the sod
That holds her only treasure; desolate,—
Alone upon the earth,—beyond the reach
Of comfort or of hope.
Of quilted linen, he was putting on,
She brought him, smiling at his pleased surprise,
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A helmet, bracers, bracelets, all of gold,
Coat-armour to his length, and feathery plume
Of vivid purple dye.—Her delicate hands
Assisted to array him, while the tears
She could not stay roll'd down her beauteous cheek,
And sighs unheard by him came thick and deep.
Yet, though she wept, she urged him to the race
Of glory. Think, oh! think,—she said,—
What we to Cyrus owe:—his prisoner, I
Was to his pleasures forfeit;—who of men
But he, would for a captive woman's tears
His privilege have waved?—for nor by word,
Nor loose regard, did he the blush of shame
Call to my cheek;—but with such chasten'd love
As to a sister tender brothers show,
He cheer'd my sorrowing soul; nor ransom ask'd
For liberty restored that nicest mind
Had doubted ere it gave. I told him then
How in thy breast such noble deeds would wake
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Would in thy thinking be too short a term
To lavish in his service.—Onward then;—
And by thy deeds this day let Cyrus know
How thou dost prize his gift. But oh! my love,
When the hot fury of the fight would urge
To things that reason shrinks from; then, oh! then,
Think on Panthea:—think thou seest her left
A wretched widow sinking o'er the sod
That holds her only treasure; desolate,—
Alone upon the earth,—beyond the reach
Of comfort or of hope.
Panthea—hush—
The prince replied:—thy words distract my soul,—
Take off these glittering trappings, for my arm
Hath not a soldier's vigour—nor my heart
Doth beat with wonted energy to day.
The prince replied:—thy words distract my soul,—
Take off these glittering trappings, for my arm
Hath not a soldier's vigour—nor my heart
Doth beat with wonted energy to day.
Nay, then am I a traitress, smiling sweet,
The lovely fair-one cried;—and she assumed
A cheerfulness she felt not; for her heart
Was fill'd with sad forebodings, and her eye
Told of unspeakable pangs;—thou shalt not stain
Thy spotless reputation for the dream
Of silly fearful woman;—be thy arm
Strong as Leviathan amid the foe,—
Thy heart like the desert lion's:—better die
The hero's death, than live to taste of shame:—
Remember Cyrus—future fame—and past;—
And think sometimes on me.
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A cheerfulness she felt not; for her heart
Was fill'd with sad forebodings, and her eye
Told of unspeakable pangs;—thou shalt not stain
Thy spotless reputation for the dream
Of silly fearful woman;—be thy arm
Strong as Leviathan amid the foe,—
Thy heart like the desert lion's:—better die
The hero's death, than live to taste of shame:—
Remember Cyrus—future fame—and past;—
And think sometimes on me.
She said—and wiped
The tear-drops from her eye,—and round his arm
Circled a golden tress:—then to her breast
Strain'd with a long embrace the form beloved.
And kiss'd the lips she ne'er might kiss again.—
Nor less the prince with fervent ardour glow'd:—
He press'd her to his bosom, as though earth,
Nay Heaven itself had nought for him beside;—
Implored in silence Jove's protecting care,
And every blessing on her lovely head
That power supreme can give:—gazed on her face
All pale and sorrowful, where misery strove
To smile, but could not;—wiped away her tears;
Whisper'd fond words of comfort;—bade her think
Rather, how blest to meet again, than brood
O'er parting apprehensions:—strain'd her close;
And stood in silence looking in her eyes,
Vacant, and lost in torpitude of grief.
The tear-drops from her eye,—and round his arm
Circled a golden tress:—then to her breast
Strain'd with a long embrace the form beloved.
And kiss'd the lips she ne'er might kiss again.—
Nor less the prince with fervent ardour glow'd:—
He press'd her to his bosom, as though earth,
Nay Heaven itself had nought for him beside;—
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And every blessing on her lovely head
That power supreme can give:—gazed on her face
All pale and sorrowful, where misery strove
To smile, but could not;—wiped away her tears;
Whisper'd fond words of comfort;—bade her think
Rather, how blest to meet again, than brood
O'er parting apprehensions:—strain'd her close;
And stood in silence looking in her eyes,
Vacant, and lost in torpitude of grief.
But the voice of the trumpet came—and his eye
Lighten'd—and his face had the glow of morn,—
And like the tramp of a distant steed, his heart
Sounded.—“Oh! Jupiter!” he cried, and raised
To the blue vault his eyes,—“grant that this day
I may myself approve to such a king
An ever-grateful friend,—to such a wife
A not unworthy husband.”—Then he took
One short and last embrace,—and bounded up
With clattering arms into the shining car.—
The snorting horses struck their restless hoofs
Into the trembling earth.—Unable then
To touch the form adored, Panthea press'd
On the unconscious chariot where he rode
A kiss of love.—The circling wheels moved on;—
From the bright scythes thick flashing lightnings came:—
The hollow beat of the coursers' hoofs no more
Sounded upon the ear:—the glittering car
Grew every moment less:—amid the hosts
Of chariots and of horsemen soon it mix'd.
Lighten'd—and his face had the glow of morn,—
And like the tramp of a distant steed, his heart
Sounded.—“Oh! Jupiter!” he cried, and raised
To the blue vault his eyes,—“grant that this day
I may myself approve to such a king
An ever-grateful friend,—to such a wife
A not unworthy husband.”—Then he took
One short and last embrace,—and bounded up
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The snorting horses struck their restless hoofs
Into the trembling earth.—Unable then
To touch the form adored, Panthea press'd
On the unconscious chariot where he rode
A kiss of love.—The circling wheels moved on;—
From the bright scythes thick flashing lightnings came:—
The hollow beat of the coursers' hoofs no more
Sounded upon the ear:—the glittering car
Grew every moment less:—amid the hosts
Of chariots and of horsemen soon it mix'd.
Panthea press'd her aching eyes;—her heart
Was deadly sick:—she spake not, but her look
Grew wild and terrified:—among the tents
She wander'd vacantly, like one in sleep
Unknowing where he treads: then would she stop,
And seem to catch faint distant sounds, that shot
Like death chills o'er her face; her flashing eye
Starting and wild,—with open mouth, and brow
Knit as in pain. But she grew calmer soon,
And fell upon the earth, and sent to Heaven
Prayers silent and unceasing; till she heard
From the far plain, upon the breezes borne,
The awful hymn of battle chaunted loud
By Persia's ardent legions.—Then she knew
The crisis was at hand:—all pale she rose;
A moment listen'd to the inspiring sound
That seem'd to fill the concave of the sky:—
Clasp'd her white hands in agony;—look'd up
Imploringly to Heaven, with ashy lips
Parted, yet motionless, and eye that seem'd
Fix'd as in trance of death:—then from her brow
Dash'd the o'erhanging ringlets; seem'd to draw
In one full breath a resolution high;—
A moment longer listen'd to the swell
Of the fast closing hymn;—then drew her robe
Of virgin whiteness round her delicate limbs,
And paced with rapid step the deep trod road
Toward the direful field.
Was deadly sick:—she spake not, but her look
Grew wild and terrified:—among the tents
She wander'd vacantly, like one in sleep
Unknowing where he treads: then would she stop,
And seem to catch faint distant sounds, that shot
Like death chills o'er her face; her flashing eye
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Knit as in pain. But she grew calmer soon,
And fell upon the earth, and sent to Heaven
Prayers silent and unceasing; till she heard
From the far plain, upon the breezes borne,
The awful hymn of battle chaunted loud
By Persia's ardent legions.—Then she knew
The crisis was at hand:—all pale she rose;
A moment listen'd to the inspiring sound
That seem'd to fill the concave of the sky:—
Clasp'd her white hands in agony;—look'd up
Imploringly to Heaven, with ashy lips
Parted, yet motionless, and eye that seem'd
Fix'd as in trance of death:—then from her brow
Dash'd the o'erhanging ringlets; seem'd to draw
In one full breath a resolution high;—
A moment longer listen'd to the swell
Of the fast closing hymn;—then drew her robe
Of virgin whiteness round her delicate limbs,
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Toward the direful field.
As she moved on,
The solemn war-chaunt ceased; and in its stead
Shoutings and cries horrific struck her ear,
And a noise like distant thunder, or the coil
Of struggling waters;—and she felt the earth
Shake like a smitten drum;—for the horsemen then,
Ten times ten thousand, were in conflict join'd,
And the chariots were lightning on.
The solemn war-chaunt ceased; and in its stead
Shoutings and cries horrific struck her ear,
And a noise like distant thunder, or the coil
Of struggling waters;—and she felt the earth
Shake like a smitten drum;—for the horsemen then,
Ten times ten thousand, were in conflict join'd,
And the chariots were lightning on.
She spake not yet,
But her heart throbb'd fast and loud, and o'er her came
A chill like the touch of death:—her waving locks
Felt stiffening into motion, and her feet
Seem'd as they trod on air.—So on she sped
Till she had reach'd a hill, whose peak sublime
O'erlook'd the scene of carnage.
But her heart throbb'd fast and loud, and o'er her came
A chill like the touch of death:—her waving locks
Felt stiffening into motion, and her feet
Seem'd as they trod on air.—So on she sped
Till she had reach'd a hill, whose peak sublime
O'erlook'd the scene of carnage.
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As she climb'd,
Louder and louder came the din of fight,
Like a gathering tempest groaning in the air;
And soon the Assyrian banners caught her eye,
And the glare of brazen armour:—and still on,—
Too far for clear discernment, she beheld
Flashings of steel, and horsemen scouring on,
Pursuing or pursued, and clouds of dust
That seem'd to reach the sky:—yet paused she not,
Though now the golden Persian eagle raised
His glittering wings aloft; and she might see
Myriads of charging foot and tramping steeds:
Still toil'd she upward, till, the summit won,
Like a vast sea th' interminable vale
Lay spread before her view. Oh! what a sight
For woman's gentle eye! Like to the clouds
Of all devouring locusts, that at noon
With their innumerous legions load the air
And bring thick darkness,—so unnumber'd seem'd
Th' exterminating hosts.
Louder and louder came the din of fight,
Like a gathering tempest groaning in the air;
And soon the Assyrian banners caught her eye,
And the glare of brazen armour:—and still on,—
Too far for clear discernment, she beheld
Flashings of steel, and horsemen scouring on,
Pursuing or pursued, and clouds of dust
That seem'd to reach the sky:—yet paused she not,
Though now the golden Persian eagle raised
His glittering wings aloft; and she might see
Myriads of charging foot and tramping steeds:
Still toil'd she upward, till, the summit won,
Like a vast sea th' interminable vale
Lay spread before her view. Oh! what a sight
For woman's gentle eye! Like to the clouds
Of all devouring locusts, that at noon
With their innumerous legions load the air
And bring thick darkness,—so unnumber'd seem'd
Th' exterminating hosts.
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She closed her eyes,
For they felt on fire;—the air—the earth—the sky—
All seem'd in motion like the surge's heave.—
She sicken'd—sunk—and for a moment lost
Her senses and her misery.—But the shouts—
The clang of arms—the thousand trumpet notes
Bursting renew'd and terrible, aroused
To sense of life and agonizing dread.
For they felt on fire;—the air—the earth—the sky—
All seem'd in motion like the surge's heave.—
She sicken'd—sunk—and for a moment lost
Her senses and her misery.—But the shouts—
The clang of arms—the thousand trumpet notes
Bursting renew'd and terrible, aroused
To sense of life and agonizing dread.
The sun shone hot upon the plain:—his rays
Seem'd kindling into fire the myriad swords,
Helmets, and cuirasses—and plates of brass,
That flash'd upon her sight. Against Heaven's dome,
Seem'd to leap up, and echo back, the din
Of the unequall'd contest.—Like a dream,—
A horrible vision o'er her heart it came,
But yet she felt 'twas true. With piercing eye
She search'd the field; a thousand deaths she saw,—
But still her eye moved on:—here squadrons fled,—
There rallied—fled again—and rallied still,—
Nor drew Panthea's gaze:—the form she sought
Mingled not there,—and there her soul was not.
Seem'd kindling into fire the myriad swords,
Helmets, and cuirasses—and plates of brass,
That flash'd upon her sight. Against Heaven's dome,
Seem'd to leap up, and echo back, the din
Of the unequall'd contest.—Like a dream,—
A horrible vision o'er her heart it came,
But yet she felt 'twas true. With piercing eye
She search'd the field; a thousand deaths she saw,—
But still her eye moved on:—here squadrons fled,—
There rallied—fled again—and rallied still,—
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Mingled not there,—and there her soul was not.
In calmer hour how had one single death,—
One wound awaked a sympathizing pang
In her too tender breast!—now thousands fall;—
Horses and men in heaps—and o'er them tread
Thousands who fall in turn;—still sees she all,
Scarce noting of the carnage:—yet at times
The Persian shout of triumph struck her ear
And shot a thrill of transport,—quickly past.
One wound awaked a sympathizing pang
In her too tender breast!—now thousands fall;—
Horses and men in heaps—and o'er them tread
Thousands who fall in turn;—still sees she all,
Scarce noting of the carnage:—yet at times
The Persian shout of triumph struck her ear
And shot a thrill of transport,—quickly past.
Where—where is Abradates?—only him
Seeks she amid the hosts.—What sees she now?
She sees from far the lofty chariots whirl:—
She hears faint distant shoutings:—sure his plume,
His purple plume is there!—'tis lost again—
Again it gleams—and fades:—sure 'tis his voice
So clear and strong that cheers the fierce attack!—
How the swift horses spurn the scattering earth!
They come—they come—a long and dreadful front;
Three hundred ponderous chariots;—yoked to each
Eight barb'd and mighty coursers,—wrapp'd in flames
Incessant flashing from the iron wheels,
The brazen trappings of the foaming steeds,
The gilded breast-plates and the polish'd casques,
And the dire scythes, on which the burning sun
Trembles and glows in wreaths of living fire.
Aloft in every car, erect and bold,
The charioteer flies on, and whirls the lash,
And shakes the clattering reins.—
Seeks she amid the hosts.—What sees she now?
She sees from far the lofty chariots whirl:—
She hears faint distant shoutings:—sure his plume,
His purple plume is there!—'tis lost again—
Again it gleams—and fades:—sure 'tis his voice
So clear and strong that cheers the fierce attack!—
How the swift horses spurn the scattering earth!
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Three hundred ponderous chariots;—yoked to each
Eight barb'd and mighty coursers,—wrapp'd in flames
Incessant flashing from the iron wheels,
The brazen trappings of the foaming steeds,
The gilded breast-plates and the polish'd casques,
And the dire scythes, on which the burning sun
Trembles and glows in wreaths of living fire.
Aloft in every car, erect and bold,
The charioteer flies on, and whirls the lash,
And shakes the clattering reins.—
'Tis he again—
She knows him now:—Ah! better never known!
Pre-eminent above the rest he stands,
And points toward the foe. His voice she hears:—
He stoops and smites the steeds:—with tempest's force
They thunder on:—before the rest he flies:—
Alone upon the foe he comes:—wedged thick
With close-lock'd shields and spears protruding far,
Stands Egypt's phalanx firm!—vain! vain! he breaks,
Like the bolt of Jupiter through the dense clouds,
Deep—deep into their ranks. O'er all that stood
He rode resistless:—'neath the iron wheels,
Shields, helmets, crackled loud:—the spear in vain
'Gainst his mail'd horses struck;—emboss'd with foam,
And fiercely snorting, through the thick array
They hold their dreadful course:—beneath their feet
Whole hosts are trampled down.—As some tall ship
When the stiff tempest bellies every sail
And bends the groaning masts,—with sharpen'd prow
And breast capacious, through the whitening waves
Dashes her furious way,—so through the ranks
Rode the proud chariot on; and as the keel
Ploughs through the glowing deep,—the scythed wheels so
Cut through the sinking mass:—through shield—through mail—
Through flesh and cracking bone, the steel holds on,
And leaves the parted carcase in the dust
Gushing out floods of blood.—
She knows him now:—Ah! better never known!
Pre-eminent above the rest he stands,
And points toward the foe. His voice she hears:—
He stoops and smites the steeds:—with tempest's force
They thunder on:—before the rest he flies:—
Alone upon the foe he comes:—wedged thick
With close-lock'd shields and spears protruding far,
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Like the bolt of Jupiter through the dense clouds,
Deep—deep into their ranks. O'er all that stood
He rode resistless:—'neath the iron wheels,
Shields, helmets, crackled loud:—the spear in vain
'Gainst his mail'd horses struck;—emboss'd with foam,
And fiercely snorting, through the thick array
They hold their dreadful course:—beneath their feet
Whole hosts are trampled down.—As some tall ship
When the stiff tempest bellies every sail
And bends the groaning masts,—with sharpen'd prow
And breast capacious, through the whitening waves
Dashes her furious way,—so through the ranks
Rode the proud chariot on; and as the keel
Ploughs through the glowing deep,—the scythed wheels so
Cut through the sinking mass:—through shield—through mail—
Through flesh and cracking bone, the steel holds on,
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Gushing out floods of blood.—
Panthea's eye
Saw nought of this:—saw not,—heard not the shock,—
Though now the unimaginable charge,—
O'erwhelming and at once, of all that rank
Of horrid engines sent its din to Heaven,
Like crash of falling cities, when the earth
Heaves and recoils—and trembles in its rage;—
Throws prostrate mountains;—lifts the valleys up
In heavy surges;—splits the eternal rocks,
And makes the breezeless ocean dash the clouds.—
She saw not this;—saw not the mass condensed
Of Egypt's valiant warriors sinking down
As by the desert's death-blast:—nor the shouts
Heard she;—the cries of rage—of pain—despair—
The crash of shields—of armour—helms and spears,—
Splinter'd and crush'd beneath the grinding wheels:—
She knew not this:—on one alone her eye,
Her soul, her senses fix'd.
Saw nought of this:—saw not,—heard not the shock,—
Though now the unimaginable charge,—
O'erwhelming and at once, of all that rank
Of horrid engines sent its din to Heaven,
Like crash of falling cities, when the earth
Heaves and recoils—and trembles in its rage;—
Throws prostrate mountains;—lifts the valleys up
In heavy surges;—splits the eternal rocks,
And makes the breezeless ocean dash the clouds.—
She saw not this;—saw not the mass condensed
Of Egypt's valiant warriors sinking down
As by the desert's death-blast:—nor the shouts
Heard she;—the cries of rage—of pain—despair—
The crash of shields—of armour—helms and spears,—
Splinter'd and crush'd beneath the grinding wheels:—
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Her soul, her senses fix'd.
Still roll'd his car,—
The ranks still fell around:—but slower now,
Jaded with toil,—with blood bespatter'd o'er,
The blowing horses move.—With carnage clogg'd,
O'er heaps of slain the unsteady chariot drags,
Heaving and swaying:—still undaunted stands,
Though now was no retreat,—though far before,
And on each side the flood of foes was spread;—
Though round his head unnumber'd lances flew,
And succour near was none;—still in his car
Undaunted Abradates ply'd the scourge,
Still cheer'd his matchless coursers to their toil,—
Still dream'd of fame when nought but death was nigh.
Oh! then Panthea's agony came on:—
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes seem'd balls of fire:—
She breathed not,—stirr'd not.—For a while she saw
The glittering chariot through the tide of men
Urging its fateful way:—but how it rocks!
Like ship amid the angry billows tost,
From side to side it swings:—rises—and sinks,—
And mounts again o'er hillocks of the slain.
It cannot last:—the intrepid charioteer
Heaves giddy to and fro:—with grasping hand
He clings a moment to the toppling car,—
Then headlong to the earth, with dreadful crash,
Chariot and charioteer are overthrown,
Never again to rise.—
The ranks still fell around:—but slower now,
Jaded with toil,—with blood bespatter'd o'er,
The blowing horses move.—With carnage clogg'd,
O'er heaps of slain the unsteady chariot drags,
Heaving and swaying:—still undaunted stands,
Though now was no retreat,—though far before,
And on each side the flood of foes was spread;—
Though round his head unnumber'd lances flew,
And succour near was none;—still in his car
Undaunted Abradates ply'd the scourge,
Still cheer'd his matchless coursers to their toil,—
Still dream'd of fame when nought but death was nigh.
Oh! then Panthea's agony came on:—
Her hands were clasp'd—her eyes seem'd balls of fire:—
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The glittering chariot through the tide of men
Urging its fateful way:—but how it rocks!
Like ship amid the angry billows tost,
From side to side it swings:—rises—and sinks,—
And mounts again o'er hillocks of the slain.
It cannot last:—the intrepid charioteer
Heaves giddy to and fro:—with grasping hand
He clings a moment to the toppling car,—
Then headlong to the earth, with dreadful crash,
Chariot and charioteer are overthrown,
Never again to rise.—
Panthea saw—
She heard th' exulting shouts—she shriek'd—convulsed,
Senseless and stiff she fell,—and misery
Awhile forebore its victim.
She heard th' exulting shouts—she shriek'd—convulsed,
Senseless and stiff she fell,—and misery
Awhile forebore its victim.
111
It was night:—
Such fearful night as closes in the day
Of mortal conflict.—Heaven's bright lamp was out,—
But man with thousand flickering fires had spread
The boundless plain, that mock'd his absent ray.—
Silence was in the air:—the beauteous gems
Of night—Heaven's radiant watch when, in his dark
Pavilion Jove reposes, glow'd serene.—
No moving cloud was seen:—the lofty trees,
The dew-steep'd grass, the dim and distant hills,
All seem'd in sleep profound.—But mortals waked:—
The voice of pain was heard—the deep'ning groan—
The burst of anger—and the sob of grief;—
The loud lament;—the dull monotonous tone
Of grief-condoling friend:—loud laughter then
From jovial groups unhurt who ply the bowl,
And tell their feats that day. With toil oppress'd
Some, on the naked ground outstretch'd in sleep,
Breathe loud and heavily.—Along the plain
Quick moving torches glance:—light female forms
With hurried step are seeking through the field
Husbands or lovers—fathers—brothers lost:—
To many a ghastly face the torch is lower'd,
And snatch'd in haste away:—o'er many a pale
And gasping victim leans the wretched friend,
And gives the useless cordial.—Staggering, weak,
Just risen from the ground, and bleeding fast,
Some unsupported wretch there totters on
To seek uncertain help:—he pauses oft
And leans upon his sword, and feels the tide
Of life fast ebbing from his wounds; then looks
With anxious eye on the calm heaven, and sighs
To think on wife and child—and far-off home—
And scenes of infancy beloved—and friends
Perhaps for ever lost.—Oh! then his soul
Sinks in him; and the stifling sob, that tells
The breaking heart, is heard, as slow again
He trembles on his way.
Such fearful night as closes in the day
Of mortal conflict.—Heaven's bright lamp was out,—
But man with thousand flickering fires had spread
The boundless plain, that mock'd his absent ray.—
Silence was in the air:—the beauteous gems
Of night—Heaven's radiant watch when, in his dark
Pavilion Jove reposes, glow'd serene.—
No moving cloud was seen:—the lofty trees,
The dew-steep'd grass, the dim and distant hills,
All seem'd in sleep profound.—But mortals waked:—
The voice of pain was heard—the deep'ning groan—
The burst of anger—and the sob of grief;—
The loud lament;—the dull monotonous tone
Of grief-condoling friend:—loud laughter then
From jovial groups unhurt who ply the bowl,
And tell their feats that day. With toil oppress'd
Some, on the naked ground outstretch'd in sleep,
Breathe loud and heavily.—Along the plain
Quick moving torches glance:—light female forms
With hurried step are seeking through the field
112
To many a ghastly face the torch is lower'd,
And snatch'd in haste away:—o'er many a pale
And gasping victim leans the wretched friend,
And gives the useless cordial.—Staggering, weak,
Just risen from the ground, and bleeding fast,
Some unsupported wretch there totters on
To seek uncertain help:—he pauses oft
And leans upon his sword, and feels the tide
Of life fast ebbing from his wounds; then looks
With anxious eye on the calm heaven, and sighs
To think on wife and child—and far-off home—
And scenes of infancy beloved—and friends
Perhaps for ever lost.—Oh! then his soul
Sinks in him; and the stifling sob, that tells
The breaking heart, is heard, as slow again
He trembles on his way.
The distant tread
Of lonely horseman,—o'er the soft smooth sod
Pattering, like summer rain-drops when the air
Is hush'd, and heavy clouds, like rocks of jet
Rising precipitous above the rim
Of the horizon, threaten thunder near—
Is heard at times: or neigh of wounded steed,
Answer'd perchance by one who arches proud
His neck unscathed;—with all his armour on,
Fearless and free roaming the darkling plain,—
His rider with the dead.—
Of lonely horseman,—o'er the soft smooth sod
Pattering, like summer rain-drops when the air
113
Rising precipitous above the rim
Of the horizon, threaten thunder near—
Is heard at times: or neigh of wounded steed,
Answer'd perchance by one who arches proud
His neck unscathed;—with all his armour on,
Fearless and free roaming the darkling plain,—
His rider with the dead.—
There slowly moves
The sorrowing group that in their arms bear off
The dying man:—the torch light on his face
Throws its red glare, but cannot hide the hue
Of ghastly death:—the arrow in his breast
Is rooted still, and quivers as they tread:—
They seek the wearied leach;—but fate prevents,
And ere they pause the vital spark has fled!
The sorrowing group that in their arms bear off
The dying man:—the torch light on his face
Throws its red glare, but cannot hide the hue
Of ghastly death:—the arrow in his breast
Is rooted still, and quivers as they tread:—
They seek the wearied leach;—but fate prevents,
And ere they pause the vital spark has fled!
Such is the victor's portion! such the night
That follows on the day of glorious fame,
When Cyrus o'er the banded hosts of Greece,
Of Egypt, and of Asia, conqueror stood.—
His foes were scatter'd wide, or captive made,
Or breathless on the field:—the shouts of joy
Had rent the evening air:—the trophies waved,—
The glittering spoils were won:—but then the night
Comes with its solemn feelings;—pomp and shows
Are hid,—but sad realities of woe,
That sun can never cheer, nor darkness hide,
Proclaim war's follies, and its desperate guilt.—
That follows on the day of glorious fame,
114
Of Egypt, and of Asia, conqueror stood.—
His foes were scatter'd wide, or captive made,
Or breathless on the field:—the shouts of joy
Had rent the evening air:—the trophies waved,—
The glittering spoils were won:—but then the night
Comes with its solemn feelings;—pomp and shows
Are hid,—but sad realities of woe,
That sun can never cheer, nor darkness hide,
Proclaim war's follies, and its desperate guilt.—
Where is Panthea?—far across the vale,
In darkness and in solitude she sits
On the cold earth:—outstretch'd beside her lies
The body of her lord,—and in her lap
The pallid head is laid. Silence is round,
Save from a little rill the murmur soft
And melancholy;—save from the far camp,
In the deep hush of midnight dimly heard,
Quick flitting noises, and anon the hum,
On favouring breezes borne, of many tongues;—
Or neigh of steed that seems to melt away
In the vast air, so soft it strikes the sense.
In darkness and in solitude she sits
On the cold earth:—outstretch'd beside her lies
The body of her lord,—and in her lap
The pallid head is laid. Silence is round,
Save from a little rill the murmur soft
And melancholy;—save from the far camp,
In the deep hush of midnight dimly heard,
Quick flitting noises, and anon the hum,
115
Or neigh of steed that seems to melt away
In the vast air, so soft it strikes the sense.
There, motionless and vacant—with a heart
Broken—and crush'd—and wither'd, till the weight
Of misery had brought its own relief,
That torpor of the soul, when grief no more
Can wake a pang, nor hope impart a smile;—
There sat Panthea:—on her husband's face
Her fix'd eyes bent:—her locks dishevell'd hung
Adown her lovely neck.—There through the night
Wretched sat she,—and there she linger'd still
When the grey morning dawn'd:—she had not stirr'd;
She had not sigh'd:—the cold fresh mists of morn
Stood thick upon her—and her golden hair
Studded with trembling dew-drops. Like the corse
She gazed upon, the deadness of her look:—
Pale as a sculptured marble; but her form
Lovelier than ever artist traced,—or thought
Of poet or of lover, in his dreams
Of more than earthly beauty, caught and lost.—
Down her fair cheek the tear that sometimes fell
Was all that told of life:—a statue else,—
The work of hand divine, to earth consign'd
For mortals to adore and gaze upon,—
She might have seem'd.—
Broken—and crush'd—and wither'd, till the weight
Of misery had brought its own relief,
That torpor of the soul, when grief no more
Can wake a pang, nor hope impart a smile;—
There sat Panthea:—on her husband's face
Her fix'd eyes bent:—her locks dishevell'd hung
Adown her lovely neck.—There through the night
Wretched sat she,—and there she linger'd still
When the grey morning dawn'd:—she had not stirr'd;
She had not sigh'd:—the cold fresh mists of morn
Stood thick upon her—and her golden hair
Studded with trembling dew-drops. Like the corse
She gazed upon, the deadness of her look:—
Pale as a sculptured marble; but her form
116
Of poet or of lover, in his dreams
Of more than earthly beauty, caught and lost.—
Down her fair cheek the tear that sometimes fell
Was all that told of life:—a statue else,—
The work of hand divine, to earth consign'd
For mortals to adore and gaze upon,—
She might have seem'd.—
The glorious sun arose
To light the heavens and earth, and gladden all
With his creative beam benignant. Swift
From his soft couch the playful deer upsprings,
Shaking his dewy coat, and joyous bounds
From the close thicket where he lay, to crop
The herbage twinkling in the laughing sun.—
Thousands of painted birds are quiring loud
Their welcome to the new-born day, or plume
In the gay light, on the tall forest trees,
Or by the sparkling streamlet or crisp'd lake,
Their gorgeous wings of ruby, emerald,
Sapphire, or golden die.—The antelope
Stands singly on the edge of rocky height
Precipitous,—a speck against the sky,—
To gaze awhile on the vast plains of light
And warmth below:—then fearless down the steep,
Leaping and bounding, comes to browse the grass
Delicious in its morning dew; or drink
At the clear fountain, where it bubbles up
Through the green vested soil;—or where it strays,
Like liquid crystal glassing golden sands,
Along the plain, so tranquil and so pure.—
The desert steed is prancing in the strength
Of youth and freedom: o'er the yielding sod
Proudly he lifts his sinewy limbs, and rears
His curling mane, and arches his strong neck:
Spreads his broad nostril to the wind—then starts;
And, loudly neighing, wantons in the joys
Of the young day.—Nature is all delight.
But what are glowing suns, and airs of morn,
Fragrance of flowery meads, and song of birds,
To the grief-poison'd heart?—As o'er the eye
Of death light's concentrated rays might pour;
As on the ear earth's mingled chorus fall,
And wake no feeling there—so to the soul
Benumb'd like lost Panthea's, all the joys
That earth can give, nay, all the pictured bliss
Of heaven or of elysium, fail to wake
One throb of hope responsive.—All is blank—
Nature seems dead:—the sun himself is dark:—
There is no perfume in the flower, no taste
In earth's most luscious fruit, no tone of joy
In music's loftiest measure!—
To light the heavens and earth, and gladden all
With his creative beam benignant. Swift
From his soft couch the playful deer upsprings,
Shaking his dewy coat, and joyous bounds
From the close thicket where he lay, to crop
The herbage twinkling in the laughing sun.—
Thousands of painted birds are quiring loud
Their welcome to the new-born day, or plume
In the gay light, on the tall forest trees,
Or by the sparkling streamlet or crisp'd lake,
117
Sapphire, or golden die.—The antelope
Stands singly on the edge of rocky height
Precipitous,—a speck against the sky,—
To gaze awhile on the vast plains of light
And warmth below:—then fearless down the steep,
Leaping and bounding, comes to browse the grass
Delicious in its morning dew; or drink
At the clear fountain, where it bubbles up
Through the green vested soil;—or where it strays,
Like liquid crystal glassing golden sands,
Along the plain, so tranquil and so pure.—
The desert steed is prancing in the strength
Of youth and freedom: o'er the yielding sod
Proudly he lifts his sinewy limbs, and rears
His curling mane, and arches his strong neck:
Spreads his broad nostril to the wind—then starts;
And, loudly neighing, wantons in the joys
Of the young day.—Nature is all delight.
But what are glowing suns, and airs of morn,
118
To the grief-poison'd heart?—As o'er the eye
Of death light's concentrated rays might pour;
As on the ear earth's mingled chorus fall,
And wake no feeling there—so to the soul
Benumb'd like lost Panthea's, all the joys
That earth can give, nay, all the pictured bliss
Of heaven or of elysium, fail to wake
One throb of hope responsive.—All is blank—
Nature seems dead:—the sun himself is dark:—
There is no perfume in the flower, no taste
In earth's most luscious fruit, no tone of joy
In music's loftiest measure!—
Wretched fair!
There sat she in the splendour of the morn,
O'er the cold corpse inclining, as through night
She motionless had sat; nor knew the change,
For with her all was darkness.—
There sat she in the splendour of the morn,
O'er the cold corpse inclining, as through night
She motionless had sat; nor knew the change,
For with her all was darkness.—
119
Through the heavens,
Half-way his flaming course the sun had run
Yet there she linger'd still; nor seem'd to feel
The torrid beam, beneath whose fury droop'd
All living things—the herb and lofty tree,
The kid and the fierce lion:—nor her cheek
Had caught the tinge of sunny noon, nor seem'd
Like aught but dead,—save that the calm of death
Sate not upon it; but deep lines imprest,
And sharpen'd features, told the agony
Still rankling there.—
Half-way his flaming course the sun had run
Yet there she linger'd still; nor seem'd to feel
The torrid beam, beneath whose fury droop'd
All living things—the herb and lofty tree,
The kid and the fierce lion:—nor her cheek
Had caught the tinge of sunny noon, nor seem'd
Like aught but dead,—save that the calm of death
Sate not upon it; but deep lines imprest,
And sharpen'd features, told the agony
Still rankling there.—
Her faithful women now,
Long searching, find her:—vainly they implore
The wretched mourner to be comforted:—
Vainly with tears they beg, the honour'd corse
To deck in funeral ornaments:—in vain
They put the cheering cordial to her lips:—
She has no sense of hearing, taste, or sight;—
No function of the soul, save what is bound
Immoveably to one sole end:—the sword
Might have pierced deep her breast;—the torturing fire
Consumed her limbs—and she had died,—but not
Had sense to feel their sufferings.—
Long searching, find her:—vainly they implore
The wretched mourner to be comforted:—
Vainly with tears they beg, the honour'd corse
To deck in funeral ornaments:—in vain
They put the cheering cordial to her lips:—
She has no sense of hearing, taste, or sight;—
No function of the soul, save what is bound
120
Might have pierced deep her breast;—the torturing fire
Consumed her limbs—and she had died,—but not
Had sense to feel their sufferings.—
Gently then
With a rich veil they shade her, and, oppress'd
With sorrow, to short distance slowly move,—
And sitting on the earth, their faces hide,
And weep.
With a rich veil they shade her, and, oppress'd
With sorrow, to short distance slowly move,—
And sitting on the earth, their faces hide,
And weep.
With merry step along the vale
Came groups of Persian soldiers,—from pursuit
Of straggling foe—or by the thirst of spoil
To distance lured the jest—the laugh is heard
As they approach; but misery like this,
To beauty so unmatchable conjoin'd,
Appals their mirth;—they pause to gaze awhile,
Then sighing—and in silence take their way.
Came groups of Persian soldiers,—from pursuit
Of straggling foe—or by the thirst of spoil
To distance lured the jest—the laugh is heard
As they approach; but misery like this,
To beauty so unmatchable conjoin'd,
Appals their mirth;—they pause to gaze awhile,
Then sighing—and in silence take their way.
121
The slanting beam of day now midway stood
'Twixt noon and eve:—and as the night—the morn—
And the meridian hour had found her, so
Was the poor mourner still.
'Twixt noon and eve:—and as the night—the morn—
And the meridian hour had found her, so
Was the poor mourner still.
But who is this
That comes along the vale?—a thousand horse
Attend his state:—his steed is white as snow;
His vesture is of scarlet and of gold.—
'Tis Cyrus: he has heard her grief, and comes
To bid her dry her tears, and minister
Soft words of consolation. From his horse
Lightly he bounds: lovely is he in youth,
And dazzling in the splendour of attire;
Nods in his golden helm a violet plume;
His step is light as the young antelope's:
His countenance is fresh as morn of May.—
Yet not an eye gazed on him:—she alone,
The beauteous mourner, drew all looks: a shape
Of Heaven might almost noticeless have walk'd
Among them—such her beauty and her grief.
With solemn step, and look compassionate
And sad, the youthful conqueror draws near:
Above the corse in silence stands awhile,
And heaves the frequent sigh.—Fast coming thought
Of glorious actions past, and generous deeds
By him perform'd who now upon the earth
Lay but a kindred clod, oppress his soul,
And tell him that the conqueror's fame is but
A bauble.—Fancy's rapid pencil draws
The ardent warrior in his splendid car,
Youthful, and strong, and beauteous;—with an eye
Of light—a brow of glory—and a voice
Loud as war's brazen herald:—shining on
He sees him through the glittering ranks;—erect
He stands, and curbs his fiery steeds that know
Their master's guiding hand.—And is this he?
This cold, and pallid, and disfigured corse?
Is this the mighty one of yesterday?
It is—and Cyrus weeps. Hast thou, he said,
Noble, but too courageous spirit, left
Thy all disconsolate friends?—then stoop'd
And grasp'd the stiffen'd hand;—it clung to his—
By an Egyptian spear from the strong arm
It had been sever'd. Shuddering he replaced
The mangled limb,—while o'er Panthea's frame
A slight and scarcely noticed quiver play'd;
And that dead calm of agony return'd,
As though she had not seen, or could not feel—
Or seeing—heeded not. All desolate,
Yet in her desolation awful too,
Was she—the mirthful felt rebuke; the sad
Dropt tears, to look upon her. Like the gloom
Of some vast silent temple, when the eve
Is closing in with solemn gusts, and clouds
Dense and slow moving through the cheerless sky;
When the white monumental marbles gleam
Dimly, like ghosts that hold their mournful watch
Above the mouldering clay; their mansion once
Beloved, and still remember'd:—when, along
The lofty and invisible roof, the sound
Of the hush'd footstep hurries to and fro
Like whisperings of unearthly voices, roused
By man's intruding presence:—when the air—
Moveless and cold—seems stopping at the heart
The curdling blood, and all but death and night
Are guests unbidden;—with a gloom like this
Came on the gazer's heart the utter blank,
The hopeless misery, the freezing calm,
Of that fair mourner's aspect: life seem'd gone,
And dire despair the tenant of that frame
So beauteous, yet so fearful.
That comes along the vale?—a thousand horse
Attend his state:—his steed is white as snow;
His vesture is of scarlet and of gold.—
'Tis Cyrus: he has heard her grief, and comes
To bid her dry her tears, and minister
Soft words of consolation. From his horse
Lightly he bounds: lovely is he in youth,
And dazzling in the splendour of attire;
Nods in his golden helm a violet plume;
His step is light as the young antelope's:
His countenance is fresh as morn of May.—
Yet not an eye gazed on him:—she alone,
The beauteous mourner, drew all looks: a shape
Of Heaven might almost noticeless have walk'd
122
With solemn step, and look compassionate
And sad, the youthful conqueror draws near:
Above the corse in silence stands awhile,
And heaves the frequent sigh.—Fast coming thought
Of glorious actions past, and generous deeds
By him perform'd who now upon the earth
Lay but a kindred clod, oppress his soul,
And tell him that the conqueror's fame is but
A bauble.—Fancy's rapid pencil draws
The ardent warrior in his splendid car,
Youthful, and strong, and beauteous;—with an eye
Of light—a brow of glory—and a voice
Loud as war's brazen herald:—shining on
He sees him through the glittering ranks;—erect
He stands, and curbs his fiery steeds that know
Their master's guiding hand.—And is this he?
This cold, and pallid, and disfigured corse?
Is this the mighty one of yesterday?
It is—and Cyrus weeps. Hast thou, he said,
123
Thy all disconsolate friends?—then stoop'd
And grasp'd the stiffen'd hand;—it clung to his—
By an Egyptian spear from the strong arm
It had been sever'd. Shuddering he replaced
The mangled limb,—while o'er Panthea's frame
A slight and scarcely noticed quiver play'd;
And that dead calm of agony return'd,
As though she had not seen, or could not feel—
Or seeing—heeded not. All desolate,
Yet in her desolation awful too,
Was she—the mirthful felt rebuke; the sad
Dropt tears, to look upon her. Like the gloom
Of some vast silent temple, when the eve
Is closing in with solemn gusts, and clouds
Dense and slow moving through the cheerless sky;
When the white monumental marbles gleam
Dimly, like ghosts that hold their mournful watch
Above the mouldering clay; their mansion once
Beloved, and still remember'd:—when, along
124
Of the hush'd footstep hurries to and fro
Like whisperings of unearthly voices, roused
By man's intruding presence:—when the air—
Moveless and cold—seems stopping at the heart
The curdling blood, and all but death and night
Are guests unbidden;—with a gloom like this
Came on the gazer's heart the utter blank,
The hopeless misery, the freezing calm,
Of that fair mourner's aspect: life seem'd gone,
And dire despair the tenant of that frame
So beauteous, yet so fearful.
Not a sound
From all those numbers was there heard: each face
Bore a funereal sadness:—every man
Look'd as his parent or his spouse were dead:
The rich vale might a desert be,—so drear
The silence,—and the glorious sunshine, night;—
Such gloom hung o'er them.
From all those numbers was there heard: each face
Bore a funereal sadness:—every man
Look'd as his parent or his spouse were dead:
The rich vale might a desert be,—so drear
The silence,—and the glorious sunshine, night;—
Such gloom hung o'er them.
125
Gazing on the corse,
With folded arms and pale and tearful face,
Willing to comfort, yet afraid to wound,
Long time the youthful king had stood; the pause
Dreary and long, with faultering tone then broke.
Lady, he said, thy prince has nobly died
And gone with victory away:—desist
From grieving now, and let the honour'd corse
With the rich ornaments I bring be deck'd:—
To him all glories due to martial worth,
Even to thy utmost wish, nay more, we'll pay;
And to the latest days a monument
Of wondrous structure, fitting his renown,
Shall tell that Abradates lies beneath—
A hero and a king. Nor shalt thou, fair
And best of women, be left desolate:
Thy many virtues Cyrus while he lives
Will honour; and his power and wealth
Thou ever shalt command.—
With folded arms and pale and tearful face,
Willing to comfort, yet afraid to wound,
Long time the youthful king had stood; the pause
Dreary and long, with faultering tone then broke.
Lady, he said, thy prince has nobly died
And gone with victory away:—desist
From grieving now, and let the honour'd corse
With the rich ornaments I bring be deck'd:—
To him all glories due to martial worth,
Even to thy utmost wish, nay more, we'll pay;
And to the latest days a monument
Of wondrous structure, fitting his renown,
Shall tell that Abradates lies beneath—
A hero and a king. Nor shalt thou, fair
And best of women, be left desolate:
Thy many virtues Cyrus while he lives
Will honour; and his power and wealth
Thou ever shalt command.—
126
Panthea nought
Replied:—the hero paused awhile and wept,
Then took his way,—with all his horsemen slow
Moving, with slacken'd rein and head deprest,
Through the wide vale.—
Replied:—the hero paused awhile and wept,
Then took his way,—with all his horsemen slow
Moving, with slacken'd rein and head deprest,
Through the wide vale.—
The day is far declined:
The sun descends: the stilly evening comes;
But yet Panthea has not moved: her eye
Is open still—and looks upon the corse.
The chilly evening gale begins to wave
Her golden tresses—and along the vast
And dark'ning vale the mournful spirit sighs
Of the departed day. To dress the slain
In funeral ornaments—with timid mien
And timid hand, the weeping women come;—
And standing nigh the palanquin is seen,
Whose sturdy bearers with dejected look
Wait their loved mistress to her tent to bear.
Gently the mutilated corse they move:
Gently, the lovely mourner from the earth
They raise; but she is icy cold—her limbs—
Her beauteous, pliant limbs are stiffening:—still
Her azure eye is fix'd upon the earth;
But is there animation in it?—No!
Panthea was no more!—
The sun descends: the stilly evening comes;
But yet Panthea has not moved: her eye
Is open still—and looks upon the corse.
The chilly evening gale begins to wave
Her golden tresses—and along the vast
And dark'ning vale the mournful spirit sighs
Of the departed day. To dress the slain
In funeral ornaments—with timid mien
And timid hand, the weeping women come;—
And standing nigh the palanquin is seen,
Whose sturdy bearers with dejected look
Wait their loved mistress to her tent to bear.
127
Gently, the lovely mourner from the earth
They raise; but she is icy cold—her limbs—
Her beauteous, pliant limbs are stiffening:—still
Her azure eye is fix'd upon the earth;
But is there animation in it?—No!
Panthea was no more!—
In Thymbra's vast
And silent vale, a monumental pile
Told to the gazing traveller, that a king,
And beauteous queen, there in each other's arms
Slept their last sleep:—the bravest he of men,
And she of women loveliest. Their names
Were—Abradates and Panthea.
And silent vale, a monumental pile
Told to the gazing traveller, that a king,
And beauteous queen, there in each other's arms
Slept their last sleep:—the bravest he of men,
And she of women loveliest. Their names
Were—Abradates and Panthea.
| The Last Days of Herculaneum | |