University of Virginia Library

Morn is come, the purple morn,
Yet it looks on shapes forlorn:
On thy glittering roofs, Shushan,
There are mourners wild and wan;
Eyes upturned, dishevelled hair,
Brows unturbaned, bosoms bare;
Hands in restless anguish wrung
By the grief that knows no tongue;
Dust and ashes on the brow.
King of Israel—where art Thou?

Through the livelong winter's night,
Like the harvest in the blight;
Like the reeds, by storms o'erthrown;
Rank on rank, lay Israel strown.
Prostrate on their naked roofs,
Listening to the trampling hoofs,
Listening to the trumpet's clang,
As to horse the riders sprang;
Bearing each the bloody scroll,
Slaying all things but the soul.

Every blast that trumpet gave
Was a summons to the grave;
Every torch that hurried by
Told that myriads were to die!
Myriads, in that midnight sleeping,
Where the Arab balms are weeping;
Where along th' Ionian hill
Night-dews of the rose distil;
By the Scythian mountain-chain;
By the Ethiopian plain;

By the Indian Ocean's roar,
By the farthest fiery shore,
Where the foot of man could tread;
Where the Jew could hide his head;
Where his heart could heave the groan;
On the earth alone, alone!
Son of the Captivity,
Vengeance winged that shaft for thee.
Judah, scattered, “spent and peeled,”
In that hour thy doom was sealed!

Still, the opening palace porch
Showed the troop, with trump and torch,
Thundering through the dusk beneath,
Each a messenger of death;
Like a sanguine meteor rushing,
Light on tower and temple flushing;
Till dispersed, the furious horde,
Like the fragments of a sword,
Like the lightning, scattered forth,
East, and West, and South, and North.

While the son of Israel's gaze
Watched the shooting of that blaze,
As o'er hill and plain it spread;
Like the livid vapours fed,
Where the battle's remnants lie,
Withering to the stormy sky.
King of Israel, hear the prayer
Of Thy people, in despair!

Yet, within thy courts, Shushan,
Stood that morn an ancient man:
On his high phylactery
Wisdom that can never die;
On the motion of his hand,
Propped upon the ivory wand;
On his step, though weak with age,
Stamped the Leader and the Sage.

Hark the shoutings! In his pride,
Sullen-hearted, cruel-eyed,
With the signet of command
Glittering on his haughty hand.
With his barb's caparison
Dazzling as an Indian throne,
Haman comes, of Lords the Lord,
Persia's buckler, Persia's sword!
In his front the timbrels sounding,
Round his steed the dancers bounding,
Roses flung beneath his tread,
Broidered banners o'er his head,
Chiefs, with jewelled shield and spear,
Flashing round the dark Vizier.

But a pang of wrath and shame
Lights his cheek with sudden flame!
One, above the prostrate crowd,
Like a pillar stands unbowed.
Day by day, that silent one,
Stood beside that portal-stone.
Scorning with the slave to stoop,
To the tyrant's vulture-swoop—
Scorning the hypocrisy
Of the captive's bended knee,
Bowing only to the rod
Of his conscience, and his God!

Day by day the tyrant's heart
Felt that scorn, a living dart;
In his breast of pride and ire,
Scorpion sting, and serpent spire!
Till the murderer's oath was sworn,
That the babe of Israel born,
Priest and Levite, matron, maid,
All should in their blood be laid—
All should in their graves atone,
That high glance, thou ancient one.

Now, from his deluded King,
Fraud had won the missive ring;
Now, the seal of death was sent,
To the palace, to the tent—
Far as Persia's banners wave,
Far as Israel finds a grave,
Far as tears of blood are shed,
Was the gory mandate sped.
Now, in his triumphant hour
To the monarch's banquet bower,
In a tyrant's full-blown pride,
Rode the mighty Homicide.

Still, beside the portal-stone
Stood that old, unbending one;
Still, beyond his fierce control,
Strong in majesty of soul.
On the tyrant's heart, his gaze
Fell like a consuming blaze.
Swelled in vain the loud “All hail!”
On his glance the pomp grew pale;
Clashed in vain the shield and spear,
On his glance rose rack and bier.
In that ancient form, unbowed—
As the gathering of the cloud,
As the rushing of the gale,
As the forest's rising wail,
Tells the coming thunderstroke,
Ruin on the Satrap broke!
Though that night his grasp might wring
Asia from his trusting King;
Though the world's first diadem
On his haughty brow might beam;
Yet his spirit's sudden thrill
Told him he was mortal still;
At his feet he saw the tomb:
In that prophet-eye was doom!

Night is on the Royal bower,
Roses on the couches shower;
Soft, as from the opening skies,
Fall delicious harmonies;
Flaming from a thousand urns,
Incense round the banquet burns;
O'er the golden-sculptured roof,
Shooting from the eye aloof,
Till it seems another heaven,
Studded with the stars of even;
Rich as an enchanted dream,
Thousand golden cressets gleam.
Grouped around the mighty hall
Indian dwarf, and Nubian tall,
Jewel-turbaned, tissue-robed,
Stand in dazzling light englobed;
Stand the Syrian sons of song,
Stand the Grecian minstrel-throng.
All is pomp, and feast, and dance,
All is joy's delicious trance;
Empire's pleasure, Empire's power,
Centered in one matchless hour:
Still, there shrinks one eye of fear—
It is thine, thou dark Vizier!

But, what sounds on midnight sail!
Hark! a rush, a shriek, a wail,
Deepening to one death-like cry,
Like a wreck's last agony;
Like the sounds that rend the air
In some city's last despair,
When upon her midnight wall
Rings the stormer's trumpet call!
Through the portals of the bower,
Israel, rush thy virgin flower;
Like a halo round their Queen.
Yet no festal smile is seen;
Yet no tresses, pearl-entwined,
Play on the enamoured wind.
Dust and ashes on the head,
Faces veiled, unsandaled tread,
Breathe their lips a funeral hymn;
All is dark, dishevelled, dim.
But, advancing to the throne,
From their circle moves, alone
Esther, palest of the pale;
On her lip a trembling tale;
In her step a woman's fear,
On her cheek a woman's tear;
But, within her glorious eye
Lustre lighted from the sky;
Like an altar's flame, the sign
Of her hope and help Divine!

Standing by the royal board,
In the cup the wine she poured;
Then with eyes to Heaven upthrown,
Hushed within her heart the groan.
“By thy diadem and ring,
“Pledge thy bride, of kings thou king.”
On the monarch's wondering gaze
Flashed her eye's supernal blaze;
Never, in love's richest hour,
Struck so deep her beauty's power;
Never passion's breathings stole
On his ear such chains of soul.
From her hand he took the wine—
“Empress, be my sceptre thine.”

High to Heaven, with gesture grand,
Raised the Queen the golden wand:
“Who shall smite,” she sternly cried,
“Age and childhood, maid and bride?
“Who shall triumph, whom his ire
“Steeps in blood the son and sire?
“Who shall point the traitor-sword,
“Aspic-like, to sting his Lord?
“Kings' and people's murderer—
“King, behold the traitor—there!”
With the more than mortal sound
Rang the mighty hall around!

Haman, boldest of the bold,
Felt his burning blood run cold;
Smote by Heaven, ambition, pride,
All the tiger in him died;
On his lip one fearful cry,
In his heart one agony.
At the Monarch's footstool flung,
Still to abject life he clung;
But he gnaws the dust in vain,
Earth abjures the living stain!

From the royal footstool torn,
Through the shouting city borne;
Now in fetters dragged to die,
Taunts and curses round him fly.
Now is paid the long arrear:—
Truths 'tis worse than death to hear;
Wrongs, by terror forced to sleep;
Wrongs, 'twas ruin but to weep;
Wrongs, that rankled in the breast,
While the lip in smiles was drest;
Wrongs, that, prostrate at his feet,
Made the hope of vengeance sweet;
Wrongs, that pined to curse his name,
In the shout that fools call Fame.
Griefs, long nursed in shame and gloom,
Things that make the heart a tomb;
Stings of soul, that slaves must hide,
Now find voices wild and wide;
All the buried agonies
Now in living vengeance rise.
Thousands, who had kissed the ground,
At his courser's fiery bound;
Thousands, piled on tower and roof,
Gazing on the scene aloof;
Thousands, rushing where he stands,
Shuddering in the headsman's hands,
Gasp to see the tyrant's fall;
Fury, triumph, vengeance all!
Yet, if there were still a pang!
Haman, through thy breast it sprang,
As the scaffold met thy glare,
Like a spectre in the air;
On that scaffold, huge and high,
Mordecai was doomed to die!
At the glance, the scorpion-thought
Through his frozen bosom shot.
“Yes, before this day was past,
“There he shouldst have looked his last;
“There, on all beneath the sky,
“Should have closed his haughty eye.
“Now the shame, the blood, the groan,
“Madman, murderer, are thine own!”

But, who comes in royal state?
Opes for whom the golden gate?
Round his car, a moving throne,
Persia's royal trumpets blown;
Hailed by Persia's Herald-throng,
Hailed by Israel's holiest song.
In the royal canopy;
Hallowed triumph in his eye,
Persia's Signet of command
Glittering on his ancient hand.
Mordecai! that pomp is thine;
Joy to ransomed Palestine!
Now no more shall Judah lie,
Dreading, or to live, or die!
In that hour was checked the flood,
Where the waves were Israel's blood;
In that hour was broke the chain—
Israel shall be throned again!