The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

The King's Determination to sacrifice the Patriarchs and their Families to his Demon-Gods. His Sentence on Javan. Zillah's Distress. The Sorcerer pretends to declare the Secret of the Birth of the King, and proposes his Deification. Enoch appears.

A gleam of joy, at that expected sight,
Shot o'er the monarch's brow with baleful light:
“Behold,” thought he, “the great decisive hour;
Ere morn, these sons of God shall prove my power:
Offer'd by me their blood shall be the price
Of demon-aid to conquer Paradise.”
Thus while he threaten'd, Javan caught his view,
And instantly his visage changed its hue;
Inflamed with rage past utterance, he frown'd,
He gnash'd his teeth, and wildly glared around,
As one who saw a spectre in the air,
And durst not look upon it, nor forbear;
Still on the youth, his eye, wherever cast,
Abhorrently return'd, and fix'd at last:
“Slaves! smite the traitor; be his limbs consign'd
To flames, his ashes scatter'd to the wind!”
He cried in tones so vehement, so loud,
Instinctively recoil'd the shuddering crowd;
And ere the guards to seize their victim rush'd,
The youth was pleading,—every breath was hush'd:
Pale, but undauntedly, he faced his foes;
Warm as he spoke his kindling spirit rose,
Well pleased, on him the Patriarch-fathers smiled,
And every mother loved him as her child.

“Monarch! to thee no traitor, here I stand;
These are my brethren, this my native land;
My native land, by sword and fire consumed,
My brethren captive, and to death foredoom'd;
To these indeed a rebel in my youth,
A fugitive apostate from the truth,
Too late repentant, I confess my crime,
And mourn o'er lost irrevocable time.
—When from thy camp by conscience urged to flee,
I plann'd no wrong, I laid no snare for thee:
Did I provoke these sons of innocence,
Against thine arms, to rise in vain defence?
No; I conjured them, ere this threaten'd hour,
In sheltering forests to escape thy power:
Firm in their rectitude, they scorn'd to fly;
Thy foes they were not,—they resolved to die.
Yet think not thou, amidst thy warlike bands,
They lie beyond redemption in thine hands;
The God in whom they trust may help them still,
They know He can deliver, and HE WILL!
Whether by life or death, afflicts them not,
On His decree, not thine, they rest their lot.
For me, unworthy with the just to share
Death or deliverance, this is Javan's prayer:
Mercy, O God! to these in life be shown;
I die rejoicing, if I die alone.”

“Thou shalt not die alone,” a voice replied,
A well-known voice—'twas Zillah at his side;
She, while he spake, with eagerness to hear,
Step after step, unconsciously drew near;
Her bosom with severe compunction wrung,
Pleased or alarm'd, on every word she hung.
He turn'd his face;—with agonising air,
In all the desolation of despair,
She stood; her hands to heaven uplift and clasp'd,
Then suddenly unloosed, his arm she grasp'd,
And thus, in wild apostrophes of woe,
Vented her grief while tears refused to flow.

“Oh, I have wrong'd thee, Javan!—Let us be
Espoused in death:—No, I will die for thee.
—Tyrant! behold thy victim; on my head
Be all the bitterness of vengeance shed,
But spare the innocent; let Javan live,
Whose crime was love:—Can Javan too forgive
Love's lightest, fondest weakness, maiden-shame,
—It was not pride,—that hid my bosom-flame?
And wilt thou mourn the poor transgressor's death,
Who says, ‘I love thee,’ with her latest breath?
And when thou think'st of days and years gone by,
Will thoughts of Zillah sometimes swell thine eye?
If ever thou hast cherish'd in thine heart
Visions of hope in which I bore a part;
If ever thou hast long'd with me to share
One home-born joy, one home-endearing care;
If thou didst ever love me;—speak the word,
Which late with feign'd indifferency I heard;
Tell me, thou lovest me still;—haste, Javan! mark
How high those ruffians pile the faggots,—hark,
How the flames crackle,—see, how fierce they glare,
Like fiery serpents hissing through the air;—

Farewell! I fear them not.—Now seize me, bind
These willing limbs,—ye cannot touch the mind;
Unawed, I stand on Nature's failing brink:
—Nay, look not on me, Javan! lest I shrink;
Give me thy prayers, but turn away thine eye,
That I may lift my soul to Heaven, and die!”

Thus Zillah raved in passionate distress,
Till frenzy soften'd into tenderness;
Sorrow and love, with intermingling grace,
Terror and beauty, lighten'd o'er her face;
Her voice, her eye, in every soul was felt,
And Giant-hearts were moved, unwont to melt.
Javan, in wonder, pity, and delight,
Almost forgot his being at the sight;
That bending form, those suppliant accents, seem
The strange illusions of a lover's dream;
And while she clung upon his arm, he found
His limbs, his lips, as by enchantment, bound:
He dare not touch her, lest the charm should break;
He dare not move, lest he himself should wake.

But when she ceased to speak, and he to hear,
The silence startled him;—cold, shivering fear
Crept o'er his nerves;—in thought he cast his eye
Back on the world, and heaved a bitter sigh,
Thus from life's sweetest pleasures to be torn,
Just when he seem'd to new existence born;
And cease to feel, when feeling ceased to be
A fever of protracted misery;
And cease to love, when love no more was pain!
'Twas but a pang of transient weakness:—“Vain
Are all thy sorrows,” falteringly he said;
“Already I am number'd with the dead;
But long and blissfully may Zillah live!
—And canst thou ‘Javan's cruel scorn’ forgive?
And wilt thou mourn the poor transgressor's death
Who says, ‘I love thee,’ with his latest breath?
And when thou think'st of days and years gone by,
Will thoughts of Javan sometimes swell thine eye?
Ah! while I wither'd in thy chilling frown,
'Twas easy then to lay life's burden down;
When singly sentenced to these flames, my mind
Gloried in leaving all I loved behind:
How hast thou triumph'd o'er me in this hour!
One look hath crush'd my soul's collected power;
Thy scorn I might endure, thy pride defy,
But O! thy kindness makes it hard to die!”

“Then we will die together.”—“Zillah! no,
Thou shalt not perish; let me, let me go;
Behold thy parents! calm thy father's fears:
Thy mother weeps; canst thou resist her tears?”

“Away with folly!” in tremendous tone,
Exclaim'd a voice, more horrid than the groan
Of famish'd tiger leaping on his prey;
—Crouch'd at the monarch's feet the speaker lay;
But, starting up, in his ferocious mien
That monarch's ancient foster-sire was seen,
The goatherd,—he who snatch'd him from the flood,
The sorcerer, who nursed him up to blood:
Who, still his evil genius, fully bent
On one bold purpose, went where'er he went;
That purpose, long in his own bosom seal'd,
Ripe for fulfilment now, he thus reveal'd.
Full in the midst he rush'd; alarm'd, aghast,
Giants and captives trembled as he pass'd,
For scarcely seem'd he of the sons of earth;
Unchronicled the hour that gave him birth;
Though shrunk his cheek, his temples deeply plough'd,
Keen was his vulture-eye, his strength unbow'd;
Swarthy his features; venerably grey,
His beard dishevell'd o'er his bosom lay:
Bald was his front; but, white as snow behind,
His ample locks were scatter'd to the wind:
Naked he stood, save round his loins a zone
Of shagged fur, and o'er his shoulders thrown
A serpent's skin, that cross'd his breast, and round
His body thrice in glittering volumes wound.

All gazed with horror—deep unutter'd thought
In every muscle of his visage wrought;
His eye, as if his eye could see the air,
Was fix'd: up-writhing rose his horrent hair;
His limbs grew dislocate, convulsed his frame;
Deep from his chest mysterious noises came;
Now purring, hissing, barking, then they swell'd
To hideous dissonance; he shriek'd, he yell'd,
As if the Legion-fiend his soul possess'd,
And a whole hell were worrying in his breast;
Then down he dash'd himself on earth, and roll'd
In agony, till powerless, stiff, and cold,
With face upturn'd to heaven, and arms outspread,
A ghastly spectacle, he lay as dead;
The living too stood round like forms of death,
And every pulse was hush'd, and every breath.

Meanwhile the wind arose, the clouds were driven
In watery masses through the waste of heaven;
The groaning woods foretold a tempest nigh,
And silent lightning skirmish'd in the sky.

Ere long the wizard started from the ground,
Giddily reel'd, and look'd bewilder'd round,
Till on the king he fix'd his hideous gaze;
Then, rapt with ecstasy, and broad amaze,
He kneel'd in adoration, humbly bow'd
His face upon his hands, and cried aloud;
Yet so remote and strange his accents fell,
They seem'd the voice of an invisible:
—“Hail! king and conqueror of the peopled earth,
And more than king and conqueror! Know thy birth:
Thou art a ray of uncreated fire,
The sun himself is thy celestial sire;
The moon thy mother, who to me consign'd
Her babe in secrecy, to bless mankind.
These eyes have watch'd thee rising, year by year,
More great, more glorious, in thine high career:
As the young eagle plies his growing wings
In bounded flights, and sails in wider rings,
Till to the fountain of meridian day,
Full-plumed and perfected, he soars away;
Thus have I mark'd thee, since thy course begun,
Still upward tending to thy sire the sun:—
Now midway meet him! from yon flaming height,
Chase the vain phantoms of cherubic light;
There build a tower, whose spiral top shall rise,
Circle o'er circle lessening to the skies:
The stars, thy brethren, in their spheres shall stand
To hail thee welcome to thy native land;
The moon shall clasp thee in her glad embrace,
The sun behold his image in thy face,
And call thee, as his offspring and his heir,
His throne, his empire, and his orb to share.”

Rising, and turning his terrific head,
That chill'd beholders, thus the enchanter said:
—“Prepare, prepare the piles of sacrifice!
The power that rules on earth, shall rule the skies;
Hither, O chiefs! the captive Patriarchs bring,
And pour their blood an offering to your king;
He, like his sire the sun, in transient clouds
His veil'd divinity from mortals shrouds,
Too pure to shine till these his foes are slain,
And conquer'd Paradise hath crown'd his reign.
Haste! heap the fallen cedars on the pyres,
And give the victims living to the fires:
Shall He, in whom they vainly trust, withstand
Your sovereign's wrath, or pluck them from his hand?
We dare Him;—if He saves his servants now,
To Him let every knee in Nature bow,
For HE is GOD”—at that most awful name,
A spasm of horror wither'd up his frame,
Even as he stood and look'd;—he looks, he stands,
With heaven-defying front, and clenched hands,
And lips half-open'd, eager from his breast
To bolt the blasphemy, by force represt:
For not in feign'd abstraction, as before,
He practised foul deceit by damned lore;
A frost was on his nerves, and in his veins
A fire, consuming with infernal pains;
Conscious, though motionless, his limbs were grown;
Alive to suffering, but alive in stone.

In silent expectation, sore amazed,
The king and chieftains on the sorcerer gazed;
Awhile no sound was heard, save, through the woods,
The wind deep-thundering, and the dashing floods:
At length, with solemn step, amidst the scene
Where that false prophet show'd his frantic mien,
Where lurid flames from green-wood altars burn'd,
Enoch stood forth!—on him all eyes were turn'd:
O'er his dim form and saintly visage fell
The light that glared upon that priest of hell:
Unutterably awful was his look;
Through every joint the Giant-monarch shook;
Shook like Belshazzar, in his festive hall,
When the hand wrote his judgment on the wall;
Shook, like Eliphaz, with dissolving fright,
In thoughts amidst the visions of the night,
When, as the spirit pass'd before his face,
Nor limb nor lineament his eye could trace,
A form of mystery, that chill'd his blood,
Close at his couch in living terror stood,
And death-like silence, till a voice more drear,
More dreadful, than the silence, reach'd his ear:—
Thus from surrounding darkness Enoch brake,
And thus the Giant trembled while he spake.