The fall of Nineveh :: :: University of Virginia Library

The fall of Nineveh

A poem by Edwin Atherstone. Second edition: diligently corrected, and otherwise improved. In two volumes

Atherstone, Edwin (1788-1872)

I, II.

VOL. I. [AND] VOL. II.

PRELUDE.

FALL OF NINEVEH.

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I, II. VOL. I. [AND] VOL. II.

PRELUDE.

In Vision are the centuries rolled back;
The dead Past lives again. I breathe the air
Of the young world; I see her giant sons.
Like vast, high-towering fabrics in the sky
Of summer's evening, cloud on fiery cloud
Thronging upheaped,—before me, as it stood,
Stands a Titanic city:—cliff-like walls,
Tower-crowned, and battlemented:—brazen gates,
Eternal boasted; 'gainst all might of man
Invincible:—gardens magnificent;
With flowers that dazzle, odours that enchant,
Fountains that bring the rainbow:—squares immense,
For kings fit habitation: midst of each,
Tall column, obelisk, or granite block
Enormous, with colossal statue crowned
Of god, or goddess, Bel, or Ashtaroth,
Adramelech, or Nebo, or what else
Divine was named:—stupendous palaces;—
Temples august:—and,—by the eagle alone
In full beheld,—vast streets of edifice proud;
Straight as a sunbeam; a day's journey long.

A sea of glorious architecture, thus;
A dream of more than world's magnificence;
Before me towers the mighty city of old,
Imperial Nineveh.

At her throne kings bowed:
From her their own hereditary crowns
As boon received: their riches in her vaults,—
As rivers in the all-engulfing sea,—
Through ages long still poured out plenteously:
Their armies,—north, or south, toward east, or west,—
Her wars to wage, her pomp to magnify,
At her command sent forth,—her will their law!

Thus in her pride of power I see her now;
Her swarming streets; her splendid festivals;
Her sprightly damsels, to the timbrel's sound
Airily bounding, and their anklets' chime;
Her lusty sons, like summer-morning gay;
Her warriors stern; her rich-robed rulers grave.
I see her halls sunbright at midnight shine;
I hear the music of her banquetings;
I hear the laugh, the whisper, and the sigh.
A sound of stately treading toward me comes;
A silken wafting on the cedar floor:
As from Arabia's flowering groves, an air
Delicious breathes around. Tall, lofty browed,
Pale, and majestically beautiful;
In vesture richly hued as clouds of morn,
With slow proud step her glorious dames sweep by.

The Vision changes. Lo! before the walls,
Unnumbered hosts in flaming panoply;
Chariots like fire, and thunder-bearing steeds!
I hear the din of battle: like the waves
Of a tumultuous sea, great armies clash!
In flame and smoke the wondrous city sinks!
Her walls are gone! her palaces are dust!
The desert is around her, and within!
Like shadows have the mighty passed away!
How came the ruin,—with the Spirit's eye,
Looking far back through the dim air of years;—
Seeing the Past as present;—the great dead
To life, thought, passion, act, arisen again,—
In words that picture things, I fain would tell.

FALL OF NINEVEH.

BOOK THE FIRST.

On Nineveh's proud towers the sinking sun
In cloudless splendor looks; nor, through the earth,
Like glory doth behold. In golden light
Magnificent the haughty city stands,
Empress of nations; nor her coming doom
Aught feareth; nor the voice of prophet old
Rememb'reth; nor of her iniquities
Repenteth her; nor the avenging hand
Of Heaven incensed doth dread: but, with her pomp
Made drunken, and the wonders of her might,
Her head in pride exalteth; and to fate,
As to a bridal, or a dance, doth pass.

The flaming orb descends: his light is quenched:
The golden splendors from the walls are fled.

But joyous is the stirring city still:
The moon is up, the stars are shining bright;
The fragrant evening breeze fans pleasantly.
In his resplendent hall, Assyria's king
Sits at the banquet; and in love and wine
Revels unfearing. On the gilded roof
A thousand golden lamps their lustre fling;
On the pure marble walls, and on the throne,
Gem-bossed, that, high on jasper steps upraised,
Like to one solid diamond, quivering stands,

His brow might fan, while on the glowing heaven,
Pondering, he gazed. His countenance was pale,
Solemn, yet ardent; such as prophet of old
Might well beseem. Round his broad forehead hung
The black locks clustering, and adown his neck;
And the majestic beard, depending low,
Marked him beyond life's bloom, yet in full strength
Of daring manhood. With the warrior's arms,
The sable vestments of the priest he wore;
Soldier and priest in one. In battle brave,
In council eloquent was he; but, chief,
In the dark learning of Chaldea's seers
Deep skilled. The fate of empires, and of kings,
In solitude, and silence of the night,
He of the stars would ask, and would believe.
And now exultingly hath he beheld
The dawn of a great glory for the East;
When the down-trodden nations should arise;
Pluck from Assyria's tyrant hand the rule;
The city of her strength in ashes lay;
And all the thrones, now fallen, should lift again.
So in the stars had he Heaven's purpose read,
Undoubting: but the manner, and the time,
The chosen instruments—no vision yet
Clearly had figured to him.

That great prince,
From the long line of Median monarchs sprung,
Arbaces—to his searching thought, at length,
The destined one had seemed; for, round his brow
A glory was, and lightning in his eye;
And, in his limbs heroic, matchless strength,
Like his, the chosen Israelite of old,
Son of Manoah, Samson; who, scarce armed,
His foes by thousands slew: and the huge gates
Of Gaza on his shoulders bore away;
Wide entrance showing to the astonished crowds,
When in the morning they looked forth, and saw
On the hill top the brazen portals stand;
Labor of many an hour for man and steed:
And, lastly, who in wrath the pillars shook

Of Dagon's roomy temple; and brake down:
Upon himself, and thousands of his foes,
Death bringing, underneath the ruin crushed.
Such was Arbaces; on the Median throne
Who, sole king, should have reigned: but Media, too,
Of proud Assyria long had been the thrall:
He, now, but leader of the unwilling host
She to the tyrant sent. On that day, first,
With words that idle might have seemed, and nought,—
Yet look and tone, which, of these nothings, made
Forms dark and ominous,—the priest awhile
Subtly had sounded him: but, spirit prompt
For boldest enterprise—so honor joined—
Finding within him, had the mystic veil
In part rolled off; and shown, though faintly yet,
Visions of wondrous glory, and great good,
By great deeds to be won; yet, chiefly, now,
Desire had waked, with his own eyes to see,
At secret hour, that mightiest of the earth,
Assyria's dreaded, unapproachable king;
That, in his weakness, he the man might know
Whose foot was on the nations;—in his soul
So might spring up disdain of bondage base.

Well knew the Mede how perilous the attempt
That gorgeous pile to enter; most of all,
Within its inmost heart, the unholy place
Of kingly dalliance, and of manly shame,
All seeing, while himself unseen, to pierce:
Yet thither, a bribed eunuch aiding him,
At sunset had he gone; and him the priest,
With anxious expectation, now awaits.

A door, at length, flies open; and in haste
Springs forth th' heroic Mede. Even by the head,
In stature he the tall priest overtopped:
His step seemed firm as tread of battle-steed;
And, toward the unclouded moon as he looked up,
His countenance might, surely, some young god
Worthily image: yet upon it now
Burned shame, and anger. Him to meet, the priest
Slowly advanced: but with impetuous speed,

Strode on Arbaces; and, with flashing eyes,
And reckless tone, thus spake. “Is this, then, he?
This drunkard; this effeminate; this thing,
Man-limbed and woman-hearted! is this he
Before whom cringe the nations? Ye just Gods!
Give me to hurl . . .”

“Hush! hush! Some other place
For words like these,” the Babylonian said:
“Let us away unto the sacred grove,
Where foot of man comes not; that of yon host
Of heavenly ministers we may inquire;
And clearer know their will.”

That said, at once,
Communing as they go, they hurry on:
Spring to their chariot: thunder o'er the bridge
That spans broad Tigris: on the ample road,
Palm bordered, swiftly urge their smoking steeds;
Till, far behind, the mighty city's roar
Is but a hum; and the gigantic walls
Incorporal seem, as mist.

“Here must we stay,”
The Babylonian said; checked then the steeds;
And forth they leap: the golden-studded reins
To a strong fig-tree's branch securely tie;
A leopard's skin on either horse's flank
Throw heedfully; then, grasping each his spear,
The broad road quit; and, o'er the dewy grass,
With quick steps take their way.

Not far removed,
Upon the summit of a hill, there stood
A sacred grove; to the Chaldean Gods
For ages consecrate. Then spake the Priest:
“Abide thou here: alone must I converse
With those that rule the earth. Thy destiny
They may disclose, and proud Assyria's doom.
The sacred rites thine eye must not behold:
Here wait then my return; and be thy thoughts
Still on the things to come.”

The Priest withdrew.
Upon the summit of the hill arrived,

Amid the holy trees—his falchion first,
And glittering spear, upon the ground he laid;
His brazen helmet next, and shining mail;
Then, in his priestly vestments solely clad,
Fell prostrate on the earth. Uprising soon,
His arms he lifted; and his kindled eye
Turned towards the dazzling multitude of heaven,
And the bright moon. His pale and awful face
Grew paler as he gazed, and thus began.
“Look down upon me from your radiant spheres,
Bright ministers of the Invisible,
God o'er all gods supreme! to whom in prayer
Man may not lift the voice! for what are we,
That the sole Infinite to us should stoop
From the pure sanctuary, wherein he dwells,
Throned in eternal light! but, face to face,
Ye see, and hear him, and his words obey,

Vicegerents of the sky. Upon your priest
Look down; and hear his prayer. And you, the chief,
Bright Mediators between God and man,
Who, on your burning chariots, path the heavens,
In ceaseless round—Saturn, and mighty Sol,
Though absent now beyond the ends of earth,
Yet present to man's prayer; great Jupiter,
Venus, and Mars, and Mercury, O! hear,
Interpreters divine! and for your priest,
Draw the dark veil that shades the days to come!
Assyria is made drunken with her power:
On earth lives not a despot like to him

That sitteth on her throne; and holds in bonds
Millions, and tens of millions, whose loud cry
Ascendeth daily to the sky for help!
And will ye then not help?”

He paused; and gazed
Long time in silence on the starry host;
His face like marble, but his large dark eye
Lit as with fire. Then, as though on him shone
Heaven opening; and the vision of the years,
Shadowy, before him passed—with hollow voice,
Broken and tremulous, “I feel ye will:
I see the dark veil drawn . . . I see a throne
Dashed to the earth . . . I see a mighty blaze,
As of a city flaming to the clouds . . .
Another city rises . . . a new throne;
Thereon a crowned one, god-like: but his face
With cloud o'er-shadowed yet. . . . Ha! then 'tis thou!
The nations clap the hand, and shout for joy!
I hear their voices, like the multitude
Of ocean's tempest-waves: I hear—I see” . . .

No more he spake; but, in a breathless trance,
On heaven long gazing, sank at length; and lay
Prostrate and motionless.

The Prince, meanwhile,
Impatiently the coming of the priest
Long time awaited. To and fro he walked;
Looked at the stars; and pondered things to come:
Thought on the past; and on his country's fate.

Next, to his distant home his thoughts take flight;
The palace of his fathers: he beholds
His widowed mother, and his sister loved:
One mildly reverend; the other gay
In youth's bright morn, and sportive as a lamb:
And one, than all beside more dearly loved,
Before him comes; one who for him all day
Sits melancholy; with pale cheek; and eye
Beaming on vacancy. A raven lock,
On her majestic shoulders that had waved,

He at his heart still wore: a curl of gold—
From his imperial brow, in happy hour
Transplanted—in her bosom fragrant grew.

That pleasant vision past, he walked awhile;
Then toward the hill looked up, and the dense grove,
That stood in massive darkness 'gainst the sky.
He saw no figure there; he heard no sound:
What held the priest so long? At times, the voice,
Far distant, of the roaming lion came:
A stir from the huge city, like the hum
Of bees in nightly council, ere the day
When the young brood must flit: a wailing cry
Of lonely night bird, winging over head,
With slow dull clang. Eastward, at length, he looked;
Darkness seemed passing; the grey dawn at hand:
“Some evil hath befallen the man,” he said;
“I will go up.” Half way he climbed the hill;
But on the summit saw the gleam of arms,
And heard descending feet. Then to the priest,
As he drew nigh, “What hath detained thee thus?
The night is almost spent: some ill I feared
Had fallen upon thee.”

Nought the seer replied;
But, coming up, before him bent the knee,
And said, “Long live Arbaces, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!”

“Art thou mad?”
The Mede exclaimed; “crazed with thy long night watch,
And converse with the Gods? or dost thou mock?”

But then Belesis rose upon his feet;
Lifted his arms on high, and looked to heaven.
“Be witness for me, all ye dazzling host,
That now I speak but that which ye decree:
Nor mad am I: nor crazed with long night watch,
And converse with the Gods; nor do I mock.
Arbaces, thou, even thou, shalt overthrow
Yon tyrant; wrench the sceptre from his grasp;
Cast down his throne for ever! Thou shalt break

The fetters of the nations; shalt wipe out
The foulness of the land; and shalt destroy
Yon haughty city utterly with fire.
Then on Assyria's throne shalt thou be set;
And none shall shake thee from it: for even so
Is it emblazoned on the scroll of heaven;
The Eternal Ones have written it! But come;
Let us go hence. The time is nigh at hand;
We must not be found slumbering.”

A brief space
They walked in silence; till the Median thus:
“Strange things indeed thou tellest me! most strange!
Wondrous beyond belief! Yet, in thy words,
Some image do I find of dreams long past;
Dreams, or foretokenings; visions of the night,
When judgment slumbers, and quaint fancy rules;
Or shows prophetic, may I call them now?
Dim as through dusky glass beheld; yet, still,
True forms of things to come?”

To him the Priest.
“Woe to the man who every idle dream
Trusteth to find from heaven! for he shall be
Uncertain as the winds, that never rest;
Unstable as the flitting mist of morn:
He shall rise up in joy; and sleep in grief;
Resolve; and re-resolve; and change again:
Come like a lion on; and, like a sheep,
Fly from his purpose: for our dreams are webs
That bend beneath the dew-drop: but of rock
Should be the base whereon our deeds are built;
Else may they come to ruin. Not the more,
When favoring Heaven in sleep doth visit us;
Drawing aside the veil of things not yet;
And with its manifest finger pointing them;
Should we misdoubt; and call its visions dreams,
Fancies, and idle fallacies: who feels
The hand of Heaven upon him, falters not;
But to its bidding with a firm heart goes,
Through evil, and through good. Such dreams were thine;

For so hath Heaven confirmed them unto me,
In waking vision. On, and prosper then.”

So they: and climbed the chariot. Rapidly
The brazen wheels flew sparkling through the night;
The proud steeds snorted, and the rough road rang.

Tumult of thought now in Arbaces rose;
Yet with a proud hope victor over all;
And to the Babylonian thus he spake:
“I will not doubt, thou favored of the gods,
That Heaven through thee hath spoken its high will:
What thou hast said, will surely be wrought out:
But yet the way is dark: I am but one;
And, to support the tyrant, stands a host
More than the stars of heaven: how shall one arm
Pluck down a throne so strong?”

To him the Priest.
“The arm of God, though single, could this earth
Crush in an instant; quench the burning sun;
Unseat the stars; and shower them down like rain,
To bottomless ocean of eternal night!
What is the Assyrian's throne? Art thou not chosen?
And shalt thou not be taught? The seventh morn hence,
Our year of hateful service will be spent:
New armies take our place. But, toward the king
Their hearts are cold. Go we to meet them then;
Thou to the Medes; the Babylonians I:
The Arabian monarch, like a naphtha spring,
Will of himself blaze out; and all the rest
At our combustion burn. For, when we go
From chief to chief of the reluctant hosts;
And urge them in the name of God to strike,
For freedom, and their country, and the world;
Be sure their hearts will burn, their swords leap out.
Hath not Heaven spoken? Can it come to nought?”

To him Arbaces, glowing as he spake:
“Through thee Heaven's voice hath spoken. As thou sayst,
So shall it be. This day throughout the camp,
Let us be active 'mong our chosen friends;

To our great enterprise inciting them;
And, on the morrow, hence to meet who come.”

Thus talking, to the city they drew nigh.
'Twas silent now; and, for the crowds that late
Had filled the ramparts, a few lonely forms
Glided with lazy step. They cross the bridge:
To the low rumble of the rapid wheels,
The huge walls murmur back: they enter not
The gate that opened as the car drew nigh;
But, to the northward wheeling, seek the camp.
The Day-king's glory-scattering diadem
O'ertopped the horizon as they reached the tents.
On bended knee, with reverential tone,
Bowing, they worshipped.

Nor, when they arose,
To needful rest retired they; but, all day,
From tent to tent, with unabating zeal,
Went stirring up the bosoms of their friends
To that great enterprise: and when the sun
On the next morrow drove his chariot up,
And overpeered the earth, he saw their steeds,
Far from the city, hurrying on their way.

The Eastern nations were star-worshippers; but their notions were not without somewhat of sublimity. They believed that there was one God supreme over all things, and that the stars were his ministers.

“The religion and boasted learning of the Babylonians are so blended together, that we hardly know how to separate them into distinct heads; for the Chaldees, properly so called, were not only their priests, but also their learned men; whose whole science seems to have been subservient to the purposes of superstition and infatuation. The Chaldeans, as distinguished from the Babylonians, were in some sort distinct from these people, and rather more so than the clergy were from the laity with us. These Chaldeans were as much revered in their country, as the Egyptian priests were in theirs; and are said to have enjoyed the same rank and degree in the kingdom. They were wholly devoted to the business of their superstitious religion, and pretended to prophecy, and the gift of prediction by the rules of augury, the flight of birds, and the inspection of victims; and professed the interpretation of dreams, and to explain all the extraordinary accidents and phænomena of nature, as portending good or evil to man or nations, and were thought by their enchantments and invocations to affect mankind either with happiness or with misery. Having by their situation been early addicted to celestial observations, they, instead of conceiving as they ought to have done concerning the omnipotence of the Creator and Mover of the heavenly bodies, and of being confirmed in a due belief and practice of what had been handed by tradition down to men by Noah and his sons, fell into the impious error of esteeming them as gods, and the immediate governors of the world, in subordination, however, to the Deity, who was invisible but by his works and the effects of his power. They concluded, then, that God had created the stars and great luminaries for the governance of the world, that he had accordingly placed them on high, and made them partakers with him, and substituted them his ministers; and that it was but just and natural they should be praised, and honoured, and extolled; and that it was even the will of God they should be magnified, and feared, and worshipped; just as a king desires his servants should be respected in honour of himself.

“Persuaded of this they began to build temples, or sacella, to the stars, to sacrifice to them, to praise them, and to bow down before them, that through their means they might obtain the favour and good will of God, so that they esteemed them as mediators between God and them. For that there was a necessity for a mediatory office between God and man, is observed to have been a notion that generally obtained among mankind from the beginning.

“Conscious of their own meanness, vileness, and impurity, and unable to conceive how it was possible for them of themselves alone to have any access to the all-holy, all-glorious, and supreme Governor of all things, they considered him as too high, and too pure, and themselves as too low and too polluted, for such a converse; and therefore concluded that there must be a mediator, by whose means only they could make any address to him, and by whose intercession alone any of their petitions could be accepted of. But no clear revelation being then made of the mediator, whom God had appointed, because as yet he had not been manifested unto the world, they took upon them to address themselves unto him by mediators of their own choosing; and their notion of the sun, moon, and stars being, that they were the tabernacles or habitations of intelligences, which animated those orbs in the same manner as the soul of man animates his body, and were the causes of all their motions, and that those intelligences were of a middle nature between God and them, they thought these the properest beings to become the mediators between God and them; and therefore the planets being the nearest to them of all the heavenly bodies, and generally looked on to have the greatest influence on this world, they made choice of them in the first place for their God's mediators, who were to mediate for them with the supreme God, and procure from him the mercies and favours which they prayed for, and accordingly they directed divine worship to them as such; and here began all the idolatry that has been practised in the world.”

—Prideaux's Connection, Part I. Book 3.

BOOK THE SECOND.

Five times from east to west the god of light
O'er heaven's eternal pavement flaming trod;
The star-bespangled wheel of night five times
Around its smooth unsounding axle rolled;
And the sixth morn arose. The watchmen then,
From Nineveh's high watch-towers looking east,
The distant mountain-tops all bright beheld
With restless flashings, like a sun-lit sea;
And toward the western hills when they looked forth,
Their tops saw also, with yet keener shine,
As of a diamond crown bright quivering:
But, north and south, along the vaster plains,
All yet was void. The seventh grey dawn came on.
Th' expecting watchmen listened to a sound,
A low dull sound, as of the distant waves,
Heard on the summit of a sea-girt rock,
When no wind stirreth; but, when rose the sun,
Lo! the vast champaign, east, north, south, and west,
Thronged and ablaze with spear, shield, helmet, mail,
Fire-flashing chariots, steeds in gleaming brass;
And hosts that countless seemed as ocean waves.

Then, in a moment, every sound was hushed;
Thousands of waving gonfalons sank low;
And toward the rising god all knees were bent
Of that thick-legioned plain; all faces bowed
In silent adoration. When they rose,
They shouted; cymbals clashed, and trumpets rang;
And from the battlements, on every side,
Trumpets and voices numberless replied.

No sleepers now in Nineveh! Wide fly
Upon their groaning hinges the huge gates:
The plains are covered with the joyous crowds:
Manhood, and trembling age, and infancy,
All are abroad; and through the portals speed;
Or on the high walls throng.

From her lone couch;
After long hours of fevered restlessness;
When first the pale morn looked with dreamy eye
On the yet slumbering earth, the queen arose.
Near to the palace—like a massive cone
Of some cloud-piercing mountain, from its height
To earth's floor dropped,—a towering hill there stood:
Work of Semiramis, long ages back,
To honor Ninus, her loved lord and king,
Whose ashes slept beneath. The founder he
Of that great city, which from him took name:
For when, victorious over numerous lands,—
From Egypt and Propontis, stretching east
To Bactria, whose impassable hills awhile
Drove back the flood of conquest,—he returned,
Exulting in his might—“I will build up
A city,” he exclaimed, “the like of which
On earth hath never been; and ne'er shall be.”
Then, nigh the bank of Tigris, he traced out
Its boundaries; a three-days' journey round;
And oblong square its shape. A million men
At the great labor wrought. The walls in height
Twice fifty feet he made: in thickness such,
Three chariots on their summit, ranked abreast,
With amplest space between, might urge the race.
Above the walls, and twice their height, arose
A thousand and five hundred warlike towers:
Of massive brass, at every tower, a gate.
The city with a like magnificence
He fashioned: palaces, and temples huge;
Fountains, and baths; and o'er broad Tigris threw
A ponderous bridge. Thus in his pride did he:
And never since upon the earth hath been
A city like to his. But then he died;

Dust unto dust was given: and, over him,
This mound, for an eternal monument,
Semiramis upthrew. Above the walls,
Above the towers, high soaring it arose:
A beacon to the traveller far away;
Who there, at morn, the sun's first glory hailed;
And blest his latest beam at evening, there.
On its broad levelled top,—a circle white,
Midst of the circle, gay and many-hued,
Of flowers and shrubs, which, like a gorgeous crown,
Twined the hill's brow,—simple and chaste, yet rich,
A marble fabric stood. For mere delight
In every part constructed—flat the roof;
That thence, with vision unimpeded all,
O'er the vast stretch of city, wide-spread plains,
And far-off mountains, the glad eye might sweep.
Against assault of the sun's fiery darts,
Of massive strength the walls. Come whence it might,
Doors numerous were, heaven's freshening breeze to admit,
Or close against too rough. At sultry hour,
Sardanapalus in this sweet retreat
Still loved to wanton with the cooling breeze,
That oft was stirring there, while Nineveh
Drew fever-breath below. A smooth, firm road,
From base to summit, like a serpent's coil,
Around the steep hill ran. In chariot borne,
Or easier litter, that way passed the king:
But, for less indolent, sweet mossy paths,
By thickest foliage roofed—in gentle sweep
Still winding up—of labor, pleasure made.
With seats for rest, and couches tempting sleep,
Bowers frequent, too, there were, by tree and shrub,
And all sweet climbing flowers, so folded up,
That sunlight there to twilight green was changed,
As of the glow-worm's nest; or, as in air
Were emeralds melted. Man and nature thus,
Of that huge monument of death, had made
A garden of delight.

To this the Queen,
From her lone chamber coming, turned her eye,
And to her damsels thus: “Now maidens, haste,
While yet dawn peeps, that we may climb the mount,
And to the sun our morning worship pay.
And let your harps and soft-voiced dulcimers
Be ready; that sweet music with discourse,
Grateful, we may commingle; and the hours
Not idly, nor without delight, may pass.
Nor let the sprightly timbrel be forgot;
That, haply, if the tale or song be hushed,
The music of the graceful-gliding foot,
With no unwise variety, may charm.
But haste ye, for the stars begin to pale
At the on-coming of his burning eye,
And the gay birds are up to sing him in.”

Thus speaking, a cerulean mantle, first,
Wide flowing, airy as the gossamer,
Round her fine shoulders, with majestic grace,
The royal dame disposed; and on her breast,
With clasp of pearl and ruby, lightly bound:
O'er her dark tresses next, all unadorned,
Save in their own luxuriant loveliness;
And o'er her pale and melancholy face,
Augustly beautiful! a rich veil threw;
Then, with her damsels, graceful as love's queen,
Majestic as the imperial spouse of Jove,
Forth from the palace walked; and the steep mount
With slow step 'gan to climb.

Above the hills
Flashed the first sun-spark, as its height they gained.
Lowly, in reverence, to the God they bowed,
And breathed apart their orisons devout.
The golden orb in the blue crystalline,
As they arose, with majesty supreme
Upsoaring they beheld; and all the plain,
Like to a heaving sea of steel and brass,
Fired by his burning eye. An instant more,
And from the hosts innumerable rose
Shouts, trumpet-clangors, and the cymbal's clash;

And, from the city, quickly, the reply;
Shout upon shout, clashings, and trumpets' clang.

That sudden uproar, at his late debauch,
Startled the drowsy king; uprising glad,
“Bid Salamenes hither,” he cried out;
“His sun is risen, though ours not yet gone down.
Ha! my bright goddesses! dim-eyed, and dull?
To bed, to bed; and sweet dreams unto all.
Yet, brief your rest to-day. Ye would not sleep
When your great Jupiter is going forth
To see his prostrate world. For, know ye, now;
This day is he as god o'er half the earth;
And ye shall shine around him, as the stars
About their full-orbed queen. Ere noon, then, rise;
Plunge in the bath; and, fresh as morning flowers,
Up to the mount: with him to stand, and see
The nations render homage to his might.”

Thus to his concubines; but different thus,
To Salamenes, entering as they went.
“What! armed already?—Art thou early up,
Or not a-bed, like us? Nay, answer not;
Thy cool, clear eye speaks for thee: but thy brow
Somewhat, methinks, too stern and solemn frowns.
Thy sister 'tis that turns from me thy heart:
But more her pride, and o'er-nice prudery,
That would in peasant's fetters bind a king,
Should meet thy blame, than seeming change in me.
By heaven! even yet I love her; and more could,
But, to my wooing, she is deaf as earth,
And colder than a sepulchre.”

Low bowed
The noble Salamenes, and replied.
“No word of censure e'er hath passed my lips.
The queen, my sister, her own counsel keeps;
And griefs, whate'er they be.”

“Enough, enough!”
Hastily said the king. “But mark me now.
Send out swift horse; and, to the general host—
Those newly come, and those who homeward go—
Thus make proclaim. ‘Four days shall ye unite;
And in full pomp and majesty of war,

As if for battle,—gonfalons outspread,
And music pealing, round the city march.
Yet, this day, rest till noon; with food and wine
Then cheer yourselves;—sound trumpets, and set forth.
But, when upon the mount ye shall behold
The waving of Assyria's royal flag;
Then, know ye that the king o'erlooks the plain:
Let then the trumpets strain their brazen cheeks;
And every warlike instrument speak out;
And let all voices cry unto the heavens,
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!’—So all eyes
Shall see the greatness of Assyria's might,
And tremble at her anger. The chief rule
O'er all the armies to thy hands I yield.”

At once toward North and South, toward East and West;
Unto the myriads who had newly come,
The myriads waiting signal to depart,
Swift couriers sent the prince—the imperious will,
Which none might question, loudly to proclaim.

The king, meantime, outworn and stupified,
On his luxurious bed, unwillingly,
Lay down, and heavily slept. Disturbed, at length,
By some foul dream, upon his feet he sprang;
For wine called out; and bade the music speak
To stir his lazy sense. With haggard face,
Flushed eye, dull, aching head, and limbs unstrung,
Then to the bath he went. The crystal stream
Received a heated drunkard; and gave back
A man refreshed and cool.

In gorgeous robes
Quickly attired, into his car he sprang;
And the steep hill 'gan mount. But not with him
His concubines: by sleep and bath refreshed,
As spring flowers bright, through the sweet winding path,
Fragrant and cool, went they; on seat, or couch,
Of the green twilight bowers reposing oft;
Silent, or lightly talking, at their will.

From his meridian height, day's lustrous god

Downward 'gan take his way, ere on the top
The panting horses stood. With heart elate,
O'er all the plain the monarch cast his eye,
Exulting in his glory, and his strength;
And thus aloud exclaimed. “Sight for a god!
What nation on the earth is like to this!
What city with this city may compare!
What king is equal to Assyria's king!
Even as the lion o'er the desert rules,
So, o'er the prostrate world, Assyria;
So, o'er Assyria, I!”

As thus he spake,
Lo! with her damsels, the majestic queen,
His eye to shun, retiring. But he saw;
Upstarted; lightly from his chariot leaped;
And, toward her hasting, spake. “Why fly me thus?
Turn with me now; and look upon these hosts,
Who here do homage to Assyria's king;
To thee through him; for, art thou not my queen?
Proud as thou art, and scornful, yet, by heaven,
My heart cleaves to thee. Clear that clouded front;
Dismiss thy damsels; and a little while
In the serene of the cool marble hall
Let us with sweet discourse the moments pass;
For, on our bridal morn, not warmer love
I felt for thee than now.”

But she his words
With face averted heard, then turned, and spake.
“Happy for thee were I the sole estranged!
King of Assyria, thou art mighty now;
Look well that treason underneath thy throne,
Work not to cast thee down. On yonder plain,
Two million tributary swords are thine:
Let not thy reckless deeds against thee rouse
What, for thy power and glory, else, had stood
Immoveable. Beneath thy satraps' rod
The people writhe; in poverty they groan,
Taxed for thy pomp: yet, to their cries thine ear
Is open never: but, in time, beware!
Upon the brows of men do gather clouds:

They talk in whisper; and their threatening hands
Touch on the sword-hilt. Like a God art thou
In glory above all; but not thine own
The strength that makes thee glorious. What uplifts,
Can also overthrow thee. Boundless power
Thou hast misusëd: thy unbridled lusts,
The hearts of men with hatred and revenge
Have filled against thee: maid, nor matron, now;
Loved wife, nor widow, even in her grief,
So that the fatal gift of beauty tempt,
Is from thy spoilers free. The maid betrothed,
Even from the altar thou hast snatched away;
The blushing bride before her marriage night:
Nay, even the virgin sister of thy queen,
Hath not thine eye incestuous dared to woo?
And yet to me, O shame! thou talkest of love?
Farewell Assyria's king, but passion's slave!
When in the fire's embraces dwells the ice,
In thine may I. Till then, farewell.”

So she;
Nor word awaited more; but turned, and went.
With a calm aspect down the hill she walked;
But her breast heaved; and when her youngest boy
From out the palace to embrace her ran,
He wiped a crystal tear-drop from her eye.

Her graceful step majestic the king watched;
And, with remorse a moment touched, thus spake.
“She says but truth; debased I am, and fallen!
How came I thus? Alas! unchecked; misled;
All means at hand; no power of self-control;
Bad leading still to worse; and worse on that;
Till now—but 'tis too late! whatever thing
I am, that must I be! the rotten log
Grows not again a green and healthful tree.
Away, away, intruding thoughts; away:
Life is a dream; be mine a jovial one!

Ha! beauteous goddesses! Within, within!
This fierce blaze quickly would your lillies change
To tint autumnal. Wine, wine, bring us wine;
A crystal cup to every goddess bring:

And, when the king shall drink, let every lip
Drink also of the nectar, sweetening it.”

Soon sparkled on the tables the bright cups:
The monarch from a golden goblet drained
A full and luscious draught: and, when he drank,
The concubines drank also, every one,
And merry laughter rose. Then sprang he up,
With jest and jocund spirit, to the dance,
And gave his soul to mirth. Breathless, at length,
And sinking on a couch, “Hold, hold,” he cried;
“Let us repose awhile: and you, fair girls,
Who with the harp and cithern, timed the dance,
Charm now the air with music rarer far,—
Your own sweet voices, twining melodies
In wild entanglement, and loosing them
In order of divinest harmony.”

All sat; and there was silence. Came at length,
Soft as the first breath of the waking breeze
At summer's dawn, rich as the perfume brought
At dewy eve from groves of Araby,—
A strain of three young voices. Love the theme,
Now, as on wings, it mounted joyously;
Now fluttered, as in fear; in soft reproach,
Now moaned and sighed; and now in anger stormed.
But soon, subdued and soothed,—like faintest sound
Of distant echo, melted, and died off:
And silence came again. A long drawn sigh
The beauteous bosoms heaved. The king himself
A deep breath drew; and glanced from face to face,
Noting the tear-filled eyes: but, in brief time,
For wine called out: yet, ere it touched his lips,
Laid down the cup, and started to his feet.
“Fair dames,” he cried, “we are not here for this!
The dance, the song, the feast, we have each day;
But this day, girls, Assyria's king is god
O'er half the earth: this mount shall be his throne;
And your bright eyes the jewels in his crown.
Up to the roof.” At once was heard the sound
Of delicate garments crushing tenderly
In the gay beauty-crowd. Light springing feet,

With quick soft patter, as of summer shower,
Streamed up the marble stairs: with trample quick
O'erspread the roof: then flashing eyes looked out!
Glad exclamations rose. In his left hand
A golden cup, full charged, last came the king;
And, with the right still pointing as he spake,
“Look forth,” he cried, “and see Assyria's might!
Lo! from Bithynia, Lydia, Phrygia;
From Cappadocia, and Iberia,
Armenia, ancient Syria, Babylon,
From Media, Persia, and Arabia,
Chorasmia, Hyrcania, Ariá,
Past the Salt Desert, past Gedrosia's waste,
On to the banks of Indus; northward thence,
From Bactriana to the Scythian wilds;
Full twice a hundred myriads of brave men;
War-steeds four hundred thousand: look, my girls!
All are to honor great Assyria's king;
In him, to honor you: for, mark me now:
When to the health of my fair dames I drink;
And unto sky and earth the signal show;
Then, from the millions upon yonder plain,
From every voice in mighty Nineveh,
The long loud cry shall rise unto the heavens,
And own the king of kings; the earthly god.”

That said, he raised the goblet to his lips,
And to the bottom drained it: hurriedly
Flung down the cup; strode on; from out its rest,
Caught up Assyria's royal gonfalon,
Purple, and starred with gold: outshaking then
The folds voluminous, lifted it on high;
Stood firmly; and—for two strong men a task—
The whole vast web, like loose sail in the storm,
Quivering and lashing,—whirled it round and round.

At once the great march stopped. Swords, helmets, shields,
Were lifted up; sun-flashing spear-points waved;
Banners were shaken; trumpet-mouths upturned;
Myriads on myriads of bright-harnessed steeds
Shook their proud heads; sprang on, or upright reared;

And, in a moment, like volcano's burst,
Came up the thunderous shout. Up—up to heaven
The multitudinous tempest tore its way,
Shivering the air: from all the swarming plain,
And from the city, rose at once the cry,
“Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!” Thrice the flag
The monarch waved; and thrice the shouts arose,
Enormous, and cloud-echoed.

At his height,
A speck scarce visible, the eagle heard,
And felt his strong wing falter: terror-struck,
Fluttering, and wildly screaming, down he sank;
Down through the quivering air: another shout:
His talons droop; his sunny eye grows dark;
His strengthless pennons fail: plumb down he falls,
Even like a stone. Amid the far-off hills,
With eye of fire, and shaggy mane upreared,
The sleeping lion in his den sprang up;
Listened awhile; then laid his monstrous mouth
Close to the floor, and breathed hot roarings out,
In fierce reply.

To martial music soon,
Again moved on the armies; round the walls
Their four days' march pursuing. But the king,
In the cool marble hall, with his fair dames
Sat feasting pleasantly. From crystal cups
The sparkling wine they quaff'd; from many a voice
Of richest tone heard music exquisite;
From many an instrument, by cunning hand
Touched to excelling sweetness. All the day,
Drunken with pride and wine, there feasted he,
And thought not of the things that were at hand.

BOOK THE THIRD.

The sun hath set; the outworn armies sleep:
But, in Arbaces' tent, by summons called
For counsel secret on things perilous,
That night to be resolved,—the rebel chiefs
Promptly have gathered. Leaning on their spears,
They pause awhile, expecting who shall speak.
Then Abdolonimus before the rest
Stood forth; for of impatient mood was he,
Fiery and quick, his sinewy form to match,
And roe-buck lightness. Of Arabia king,
Yet vassal still of haughty Nineveh,
Now two years had he fretted in his chains;
Like the wild steed of his own deserts, proud,
And spurning at control. With hasty foot,
A stride advancing, he glanced round, and thus.
“Our time so short, why stand all silent here?
Who, and what, calls us? Be it told at once;
That, or to deeds we may bestir ourselves,
If such there be to do; or use the hours,
As nature teaches, for refreshing sleep;
Seldom, I ween, more lacked.”

Belesis then,
With air majestical, one step advanced,
And thus began. “The summoner am I;
O king! and all ye chiefs! by the plain will
Of heaven itself directed; and, not less,
By counsel of wise friends. Refreshing sleep
Is, to the wearied body, as our food;
Which wanting long, we die; but counsel sage

Is ofttimes as a shield of proof, snatched up
To ward off instant death. My words then hear,
Nor deem ill spent the time. To-night we rest
Secure, and unsuspected; our main force,—
So, of a surety, favored by the gods,—
Nearest the eastern mountains: safe retreat,
Should the first storm of battle blow advérse;
Or as a fortress where, impregnable,
We may abide, inviting to our arms
The oppressëd nations. What to-morrow's close
May bring, we know not; but, of good, no hope
More than the present; while, of evil, much
May well be dreaded; and, in part, is sure:
For, though the slumbering tyrant be not stirred
By noise of our intent; which, spread so wide,
Cannot be long concealed; and though our friends
Doubt not, nor waver, in the feverish hour
Betwixt the close design, and open stroke—
A proof for boldest hearts—yet this mad march—
The tyrant's senseless whim—around the walls
Prolonged to-morrow, of the mountain-holds
Would rob us: yield us, at his reckless nod,—
Outnumbered fatally—foes right and left,—
Retreat impossible,—to the first blind rush
Of nations, ignorant that for them, not less
Than for ourselves, we peril country, friends,
Wives, children, parents, riches, honors, life,
In struggle to be free. Such enemies,—
Time gained for thought,—our fast friends might become;
And turn, at length, the scale, else threatening us
With issue perilous. Therefore, from the walls—
Wisely resolved—a space should we retire:
There, as occasion prompts, the battle meet;
Or to the strongholds of the mountains march,
And calmly wait attack. Our hundreds thus,
Resisting, stronger than their thousands were,
Assaulting us. His utmost so defied,
Myriads who worship his omnipotence now,
Would know the tyrant's weakness; and the awe

That bound them slaves, would melt away, like fog
Before the sun-blaze. But, delay is fate!
Now must we strike, or, through all life to come,
Groan under bondage! Even should we 'scape,
Undoubted; and the fourth day's march be done;
What better can ye hope, than that ye have?
The mountain strongholds would be more remote;
The ardor of our spirits, by delay,
Cooled; and, in many, quenched: no chance of good
More than is now; of evil, manifold.
Why linger then? Is God not on our side?
Shake out your banners to the rising sun;
Draw forth the sword; and, while ye worship, swear,
Never to let the glorious conflict end,
While o'er Assyria rules the woman-king;
While, o'er the east, Assyria! for I say—
And reverence ye the priest by heaven inspired—
The doom of this great city is at hand:
Her king is given to death; her walls to fire;
Her strength shall be as flax before the flame;
Her glory shall go out; her name alone
Shall live, to tell the world that she hath been!
Lift then the flag, and trust to heaven the event!”

He ended; and sounds dissonant—the voice
Applauding, the loud murmur censuring,—rose.
Quick glances shooting round, eager to speak,
Stood Abdolonimus; but, preventing him,
Almelon, of the Babylonian force
Newly arrived, the leader, raised his voice.
An aged man was he, yet firm of limb,
And with an eye unquenched: but, with his years,
Caution, distrust, had come; judgment severe;
An anxious mind, forecasting still the event;
The worst, too oft, foreboding. On the priest
He fixed his look; and, with slow utterance, thus:

“Thy years, Belesis, fewer are than mine;
And thy experience less: with patience, then,
Attend me; though, for knowledge, and far thought,
With thee I match not; as what other can?
For, from thy boyhood, wert thou ever wise

Beyond man's wisdom: nor inspired am I
Like thee to read the counsel of the Gods:
Yet, for these grey hairs, listen to my words,
Which shall be few; for I no speaker am,
As well ye know. Till the fifth morn shall come,
Lift not your flag; nor farther stir men's minds;
But let your purpose lie as in a sleep,
And none will wake it. Surely ye forget
How few our numbers in this mighty host!
Two hundred myriads here of fighting men;
On our side, but an eighth. Forget ye this?
Forget ye that the fourth day hence will see
One half this living deluge ebb away,
Never again to flow? What chance of ill,
Doubtful, can match this certainty of good?
Then get ye to your quiet beds; and speak
No word of your intent; but wait in peace
The fifth bright morn: lift then your banners high,
And sound your trumpets till you burst the brass,
If so you will; I caution you no more.
Ye have my counsel; hear it not in vain.”

Promptly again stepped forth the Arabian king,
Intent to answer him: but, when he saw
That for himself Belesis would reply,
He nodded, and drew back. Thus then the priest.

“Thy years, old chief, we reverence; and thy thoughts,
By sage experience matured, respect:
Yet, unto error are the wisest prone:
Good counsel unto better must give place,
Without regard of venerable age;
Whereto obedience would we gladly pay,
Reason approving; not in her despite:
Therefore in censure of thy cold advice
Freely I speak; nor thou offence shouldst feel.
Friends; our great cause is in the hand of Heaven!
It is decreed, and written in the book,
That we shall triumph. Few we are indeed;
But shall wax numerous. Think ye, in yon host,
No heart will burn when freedom is our cry?

No arm be lifted, when our trumpets sound,
Calling to strike for country, children, wives,
For aged sires and mothers? Doubt it not!
The rather far, by my advice, proclaim
With the first dawn of light our glorious cause,
Even that this living deluge is yet full:
To us a source of hope, far more than fear;
Of terror, more than triumph, to our foe:
For, think ye that on us alone will break
The fury of the storm? No! let him loose
The winds, and lash the waters: greater might
Than his shall rule the tempest, once awaked;
And fling him like the surf before its waves!
Ye have my counsel also: choose the best.”

He ceased; and still again discordant sounds,
Applause and censure mingled, answered him.

As to the breeze, unsettled, veering oft,
The golden crop, full charged, to every gust
Doth bow; to this hand some, and some to this;
That, whence the master-wind, may not be told;
Even so with thoughts conflicting were the chiefs
Divided; that, which counsel swayed the most,
No man might tell. High grew the clamor soon.

But, overpowering all, Rabsaris now,
With arms uplifted, strode into the midst,
Speaking vehémently; and all were stilled.
The tyrant's deadly foe well known was he:
Stern, and vindictive; nursing evermore
The hope of vengeance for his daughter, wronged
By him, the accursëd one; his comrade once,
In youth, and bosom friend: for at the chase
Together; and together at the board;
And at the midnight revel, had they been.
But youthful friendship, to insatiate lust,
Slight barrier: for Azubah's growing charms
The king had fired; that, with imperious hand,
Even on the morning of her marriage day;
From out her father's arms; before the eyes
Of the expecting youth, the maid he seized;
And to his palace bore: herself, the while,

Not all displeased; for her stern father's will,
One, whom she liked not, would have forced her wed;
And, in the enamoured monarch,—so with eyes
Of passionate love he had wooed her, and with words
Of honied sweetness,—she had seen a friend,
And kind deliverer. Wild, despairing, mad,
The disappointed bridegroom his own sword
Turned on himself: but, with consuming rage,
Rabsaris on the hated ravisher,
Even in his feasting hall, his weapon drew:
Was seized; thrown down; chained, and to prison cast.
Then all men said that he would surely die:
His foes rejoiced; his friends estranged themselves;
His next of kin petitioned for his lands;
And thought his respite long: yet him the king,—
By the fond daughter's prayers and tears subdued,—
Set free, unharmed: his forfeit wealth restored:
But, from Assyria, for his term of life,
An exile, sent him; on that day to die
When the forbidden ground his foot should touch.
Yet now, defying fate, for vengeance mad;
And, in his careworn face, and shrunken form,
For safe disguise confiding, had he come,
That long-due debt to pay, for which alone
He lived, or cared to live. A nobler blow
Designed he found: then fearlessly his name
And purpose spake aloud. His tall, gaunt form,
Hoarse, hollow voice, sunk cheek, and burning eye,
Drew all men's gaze.

“Friends, hear me,—hear,” he cried;
“Hear me, Rabsaris; for ye know me well,
The tyrant's mortal, unrelenting foe.
Foul! false! accursëd! Hear me, valiant chiefs,
Together leagued in this most holy cause;
Which may the good Gods prosper! But, not thus,
Among yourselves discordant, can ye hope
For other than disunion, and defeat,
Shameful, and fatal. Of your schemes in full,
As yet I have not learned: for me enough,
Your foe and mine are one: yet did I deem

Some ruling counsel swayed you; and some chief,
By all acknowledged leader, had been named;
Of your great enterprise, the head and soul:
But, here, I see all leaders; followers none;
To every sword a voice: prognostic dire!
For, look but at the simplest things that live,
And ye may learn a prudent government.
The silly sheep will yet a leader choose,
For strength and courage nobler than the rest;
And him they follow: the industrious bee
Works not but in the presence of its queen:
Nor cranes, intent to migrate, will take wing,
Save with a leader to direct their course.
Saw ever ye a herd, but, at their head,
Was one, their king? Through all the world 'tis so;
Yea in the heavens; for, round one ruling star
The dazzling host obedient ever moves;
And the great system lasts; and shall for aye.
But, what if each particular orb, too proud
To own allegiance, would its separate course
Choose out in heaven; how think ye then the frame
Would hold together? Star 'gainst star impelled,
Horribly clashing, the huge arch would fall;
Crush this great earth; and bury all that lives.
Learn then of these; and, from among you, him,
The worthiest, wisest, bravest, choose ye chief:
Him follow, and obey; so shall ye thrive:
All equals, ye will perish!”

At these words,
Throughout the assembly ran a sound confused;
And many a name of king, or warrior good,
Was whispered, man to man.

Belesis then
Again stood forth; and to Rabsaris thus.
“Well hast thou spoken; for, without the head
To guide and rule, what matters strength of limb?
True strength in wisdom lies. Why toils the ox,
Pricked to his labor by some puny boy?
Why doth the proud steed bear upon his back
The stripling, or the woman; his vast strength

And spirit, to such weakness tamed and bowed?
And wherefore doth the mighty elephant
His huge knee bend, at bidding of a slave,
Whom, with one motion, he might strike to death,
Or crush to nothing? wherefore but for this;
That, in the weaker frame of man, abides
That nobler strength of Reason, which doth awe
The meaner intellect; and the huge powers
Of things irrational, like mere machines,
Doth bend unto its purpose. As the beasts,
Senseless were we, and fit to wear the yoke,
A chief refusing, and controlling mind,
Who to wise object should our strength direct;
Making, of many thousand feeble arms,
One irresistible. The untwisted flax,
An infant's hand might take; and, thread by thread,
Snap easily, what, in one band firm knit,
Had been a cable for some bulky ship
To outride the storm with. Like these fragile threads
Were we, by jarring counsels kept apart;
But, bound together, shall have strength to pull
From its broad base this monstrous tyranny;
And rend the fetters that bind down the world.
Nor ignorant we of this; nor over proud,
Or jealous, to the needful curb to yield:
For chains and darkness in a maniac's cell
Fitter were he than for a leader's place,
Who his own headstrong will would not submit;
Or, in the anarchy of many rules,
Could hope for conquest. One sole chief must be.
But who, among so many eminent here;
So many great in council and in fight,
The greatest, ye would know; so him to choose.

“My friends, your captain is already chosen!
His name is written in the eternal book!
Heaven hath appointed him! Among you here
Unknown he stands: but, when your flag is raised,
And of the universal host ye ask,
‘Whom for your captain choose ye?’—then the name
Will to the heavens fly up. For us, this hour,

Sole question is, if, with to-morrow's sun,
We strike the first blow in this glorious strife,
Or till the fifth morn timorously wait;
Unhappy omen! Promptly then resolve;
Nor longer waste the night. Who think with me,
To this side draw; who to Almelon lean,
Stand on the left: and let one chief remain
To tell the numbers; so shall soon be known
What counsel sways the most: and that rule all.”

Such words pleased well; and forthwith, as they chose,
To right, or left, they moved. Foremost of all,
Stepped forward toward the priest the Arabian king,
And thus aloud: “No chieftain have ye named
To count the numbers: be Arbaces he;
Noble and true, on him will all rely.”

The rest applauding, from amid the throng
Arbaces moved; and waited till the stir
Should have subsided.—Now, from man to man,
Walking, he counted. Not a breath was heard.
Twice round he went; and twice the numbers summed:
Then, at one end, in view of every eye,
Stood, looked around, and spake.

“My valiant friends;
All valiant, earnest in this holy cause,
Howe'er in counsels differing. Gods alone
See all, and truly. Wisest of man's race
See, each, but part; and oft, of that mere part,
The true worth know not: whence come reasonings false;
Conjectures strange, and judgments most divérse,
In even who best can judge. With us, this night,
The scales hang balanced; both sides, man for man,
Exactly numbered: but myself not yet
Have taken place; my right to choose, not lost.

Opposed stand here, the brave, the wise, the good,
The agëd and the young: how then may I
Dare to decide such difference! Yet to me—
So have the ever glorious gods ordained—
To me, unworthy as I am, is given,

The scales wherein are mightiest issues poised,
Even as I will, to sway. How then to choose?
Of my own wisdom should I counsel seek?
Gravely this mighty question, every way,
Turn, and return, and fluently debate;
Then, like a judge between two counter claims,
Your difference set at rest, approving one?
Foolish that man, vain, and presumptuous,
Who, at my years, and uncompelled, could stand
In this assembly supreme arbiter;
Above such wisdom, his poor self-conceit
Esteeming sovereign: such man am not I;
And, lacking better guidance than my own,
The word decisive would have blushed to speak,
Where men like these are balanced: but I ask,
Not of the brave; not of the young, or old;
Not of the wise; nor of my own vain thoughts:
A mightier voice within my soul doth call,
Louder than armies; and I must obey,
For 'tis from Heaven it comes!

Your hearts are strong;
Your cause is holy; God is on our side;
How can you doubt? Up with your banner, then!
Wait not the fifth pale morn; wait not an hour!
This instant let us shake before high heaven
Our glorious ensign! See! it waits you here!”

Yet speaking, toward a folded gonfalon,
Behind him, thwart the spacious tent outstretched,
He pointed; onward sprang; the great staff grasped;
Paused; and, from man to man, glances of fire
Shot, inexpressibly bright; waiting the word.
Splendor of heaven beamed from his noble brow;
His voice heroic with unearthly strength
Seemed to expand: his voice was like the call
Of trumpet to the battle. In their hearts,
All said, “behold our leader!”

As a torch,
'Neath the cold, silent, beacon-pile thrust in,
With its small flame, the dead and heavy mass
To instant light, and fire, and motion turns;

Dazzling the eye, and roaring in the ear—
So, at his burning words, the sleeping heat
In the still bosoms of the generous chiefs
Burst to an instant flame. “Up! up!” they cried;
“Lift up the banner! we will trust in Heaven!”

Ere half the words were spoken, from the tent
Out flew the ardent Mede: with eager hands,
The flag uncoiled; uplifted the huge staff,
Steel-pointed; and, with more than giant's strength,
Down drove it, quivering, deep into the ground.
Was it a signal of approving Heaven?
A sudden wind arose: as if to life
Joyously summoned—through its whole expanse,
The mighty ensign, rustling, roaring, streamed;
Waving defiance; beckoning to the field.

Toward his own army every leader then
In haste departed; and, throughout the camp,
Quickly a stir was heard; fast running feet;
The clink of armour; earnest whisperings;
The tramp of horsemen spurring eagerly
To all allies whom distance, and the hour,
Permitted them to summon. To the rest—
Beyond a ready call—went messengers,
The glorious news to tell; and to conjure,
With the next night to march.

In little while,
Unheard, unseen,—for sentries there were none;
And every several nation, from the next,
As through the day, wide space apart had kept,—
Foot, horse, and chariots, oxen, camels, wains,
Toward the great eastern strongholds 'gan draw off.

Two hours' march done, the Medes, who first arrived,
Halted, and stood. Came next the Armenian host:
Nation by nation, silently they came,
And silent stood, awaiting. But, when now
The Lydian force, most distant, and the last,
Near them had come—then tents again were pitched;
Sentries were stationed; and the ardent hosts,
Till dawn should peep, once more lay down to rest.

BOOK THE FOURTH.

Sunrise: Assyrian soldiers from their tents
Come forth to worship; but, when from their knees
Arising, they look round, lo! where, at eve,
In peace the hosts of nations had encamped,
Voids, threatening war at hand! Wonder, and fear,
Filled all beholders. Whitherward had fled,
And silently, unseen, armies so vast,
Greatly they marvelled: but, forth looking soon—
Scarce two leagues from the wall, in the sun's glare
Fitfully seen, behold! tents numberless,
The glint of arms; and one tall gonfalon;
Vast seeming as Assyria's royal flag,
Yet strange to every eye—sign ominous
Of dread rebellion waked! Astonishment,
And terror, for a moment held them mute:
But, man to man; cohort to cohort, soon;
Legion to legion, sounded the alarm;
And nation unto nation sent it on,
Wondering, and crying aloud,—that now the air,
As with confusion of old Babel, rang;
And men seemed madness-stricken.

On his knees
In worship, Salamenes heard the din—
Distant at first, and faint; yet, like the voice
Of fast approaching thunder, gathering strength,—
And, starting up, stood listening. But, anon,
Behind him, also, quickly rose, and swelled,

Like sounds of tumult—some confusion strange,
And widely spread, denoting. Speedily
Came tidings: he looked forth; and lo! the flag,
Signal of black rebellion, flaunting wide;
Portentous as the train of blazing star,
That threatens plagues to man! Smiting his breast,
Aloud he called; and, at the voice, came forth
Nebaioth from the tent. “Behold! my friend;
Rebellion is afoot! A herald take.
Get thee forth quickly. Learn what means this stir;
And who their leader. Bid them break yon staff;
Cast down at once their arms; and on my knees
Will I their pardon pray for. Hasten then.
Unto the king go I.” Speaking, he ran;
Leaped to his chariot; seized the reins, the scourge,
And swift as wind flew on. Nebaioth then,
A herald summoned. To their steeds they sprang:
And the fast-beating hoofs, along the ground,
Made running thunder.

Meantime, in the camp
Of the revolted nations—by the sound
Of trumpets gathered—the chief leaders stood;
And, circling them—even as the ocean flood
Some little island rounds—the expectant host;
A sea of glittering arms. Above them all;
Bare headed; in his priestly robes attired;
On a low rising ground Belesis stood,
Awaiting silence. When the stir was hushed,
Toward heaven he turned his face; his arms uplift,
Praying aloud, and said:

“Thou glorious sun!
And ye, the bright Interpreters of Heaven!
Invisible, yet present still to prayer;
Your holiest influence pour upon us now:
Our minds enlighten, and our hearts make bold:
Let strength be in our arms; and, in our breasts,
Union, and brotherly love; so shall our cause
Go on triumphantly; the tyrant fall;
And the chained nations break their bonds, and live!
But chiefly now, we pray, our counsels guide:

For this our great emprise, a leader fit
We ask of you. Oh! in this people's hearts
Let your dread voices speak aloud his name;
That all in him Heaven's chosen one may know;
And to his rule submit!”

He paused awhile;
Lowly bowed down; across his breast, his arms
Reverently folded, and in silence prayed:
Then, rising, on his head the helm replaced;
And, with a voice so mightily uplift,
That, far and near, by thousands was he heard;
Thus, both to captains and to soldiers, spake:

“Not now for wordy strife, in long debate,
Here meet we. Iron-handed war comes on;
And we must grapple with him. Who that looks
On this great host need fear? yet, like the sand
Before the whirlwind, lacking wise control,
Might all our strength be driven. One mind, one hand,
Must rule us. Like a wide-spread shower of rain,
That falls unfeared, and powerless, were the hosts
Most numerous, whose several chiefs would own
None greater than themselves: but, like the cloud
That on a mountain bursts, and downward hurls
Trees, houses, rocks, in thunder to the plain,—
Is that great host, whose myriad arms are knit,
As in one giant arm; for one great blow;
Beneath one ruling mind. Then, name ye now
A captain, brave to lead the boldest swords;
A counsellor, to sway the wisest fit;
And him choose ye for leader. To his sway
Vow all a full obedience; for, in him,
The hopes of our great enterprise will live.
Soldiers—to you I speak.—Whom choose ye chief?”

Scarce had he ended, when, from that vast throng,
Burst instantly a long and deafening shout;
“Arbaces!” Like some giant wave, foam-topped,
Rolled on the gathering uproar: to and fro,
Like thunder-peals among the mountains tost,
“Arbaces,” still “Arbaces;” everywhere
“Arbaces” was the universal cry.

His left hand resting on his sheathëd sword;
The banner-staff grasped loosely in his right;
Pale as a corpse a moment stood the Mede,
Powerless to move, or speak. Recovering soon,
Up the low mount he sprang; and, looking round,
Silence awaited. Then again the shouts
On all sides rose; again, and yet again;
Plumed helmets, swords, banners, and spears were waved.
But hark! a trumpet. On their panting steeds,
Nebaioth and the herald are at hand.
Before the sacred minister, the crowd
Gives way; and they pass on.

Amid the chiefs
Arrived, the young Assyrian from his horse
Alighted not; but, glancing swiftly round
A proud and angry eye, thus sternly spake.
“What see I here? Rebellion in broad day?
And traitors in my friends of yesternight?
Are ye all crazed? or weary of your lives,
That ye seek death? too soon to fall on you,
Unless to gentleness the king be moved.
What can ye hope? Oh! ere it be too late,
Strike down yon standard, fling it to the flames;
And Salamenes—his own words I speak—
Will of the king, even on his knees, implore
Your undeservëd pardon.”

At these words,
Arbaces would have spoken; but, at once,
Starting with fury forth, Rabsaris thus;
“Pardon implore? Tell the foul tyrant this;
On his own knees let him of Heaven implore
Forgiveness, and of us; and be to hell
Spurned back, and mocked! We nothing beg of him:
On stubble stands his throne: his days are told:
His rich reward is nigh. Go tell him this:
And say it was his friend, Rabsaris, spake;
Rabsaris! Shout a thousand times the name;
Till he go mad.”

With interruption quick,
Nebaioth stayed him. “Shameless traitor! peace!

Thine own death-sentence hast thou spoken now,
Heartless! and thankless! Spared he not thy life,
Forfeited justly? gave not back thy wealth;
And, in his mercy, to slight punishment,
Mere exile, doomed thee? Wretch! thy days are told;
Even by thyself; thy rich reward is nigh.
Fly, while thou may'st; or stay, and meet thy doom;
The fitter course, ungrateful! But on thee
Why waste I speech?”

To him Rabsaris thus,
Fire in his hollow eyes: “Fit servant thou
For such a master! insolent, and false!
But I have nought with thee; nor heed thy words;
Senseless, and ignorant!”

No more to him
Nebaioth spake; but to the captains turned,
Conjuring them: “Oh! ere it be too late,
Throw down your rebel arms! The king may hear
Your prayers repentant; and withhold the sword,
That, else, must cut you off. What hope have ye
'Gainst him to strive? What seek ye? Are ye all
By frenzy seized? or, with suggestion black,
Hath some vile traitor . . . . .”

There, impetuously,
Belesis stayed him. With his quivering hand
Up-pointed, he strode forward, crying aloud,
“Hold! and blaspheme not! To yon heaven look up.
There dwelleth He whom thou hast traitor named!
Ay! look, and wonder: for even thence it comes;
The voice that hath yon city's doom foretold;
The fate of him that on her throne doth sit.
Thither our prayers ascend; our hopes are there.
We bow not to thy king; but to his king:
And He hath bid us hope; and led us on;
And still will lead us, till the work be done;
And earth once more be free! Such hope is ours;
Such end we seek. Thus to the tyrant tell.”

He ceased, and backward went. Nebaioth then,
By those strange words, and that vehément voice,

O'erawed, awhile was silent. But, at length,
Thus answered him: “How know ye 'tis from heaven;
The voice ye speak of? which of you hath heard;
Or who hath seen—”

Again the priest advanced,
Rebuking him. “Pollute not thus our ears
With speech profane: the mysteries of heaven
Thou canst not read, unsanctified: not the less,
There are to whom the scroll of things to come
Hath been unrolled; and therein have they read;
Therefrom have taught. Join, therefore, thou with us;
Or take thy way, and say unto the king
What thou hast seen: but more we wish thee stay;
For virtuous art thou; of a noble mind,
And zealous for the right.”

Nebaioth then,
Looking around him, spake. “Oh! friends, beware!
Ye stand upon a precipice's brow;
And are about to plunge! In time draw back!
Trust not in idle prophecies, and dreams,
That lure, but to destroy you! Cast your eyes
On yon great city, mistress of the world;
On yon resistless armies, that but wait
One word to tread you down! Ah! bid me fly,
And say unto the king that ye have seen
Your folly; and have cast your arms aside;
Have trampled on yon hateful sign of guilt;
And stooped unto his mercy: surely then
He will give ear to you; his wrath will change
To pity, and forgiveness. Harden not
Your hearts in pride; for dreadful is the ire
Of kings provoked. A force invincible,
Against you in a moment might he send;
And ye would perish; blindly perish all:
And for a dream! a prophecy! Oh heavens!
Wake from your stupor; pardon beg, and live!”

He spake in passion; on each well-known face,
Tears in his eyes, looking imploringly.
To answer him, Belesis started forth;

Almelon, also, raised his wrinkled hand:
Rabsaris, too, and Abdolonimus,
Motioned to speak: but now before him came
Arbaces: and, him seeing, all were still.
Then thus, with gentle words, the Mede began.

“Thy speech, not all offenceless, have we heard,
Even to the close; now hearken our reply;
For, through my mouth, the thoughts of all thou hear'st:
Not lightly to be changed; nor safe th' attempt;
Which, henceforth, therefore, I forewarn thee, shun.
For thee, Nebaioth, though our foe thou art;
A zealous, and a fierce one soon to be;
Yet, for an upright and a valiant youth,
We do confess thee; and would gladly join
The hands of love; and clasp thee to our hearts;
And call thee brother. In the silent night;
When on thy quiet bed thou liest down;
And passion is at rest, and reason wakes;
Then in thy soul inquire, if all this earth
For one man was created: ask again,
Who is this man? Is he more wise? more good?
Hath he the lion's valour? or the strength
Of Behemoth, that thus on prostrate lands
His foot he setteth? Question still again;
If thy Assyria were the Median's slave,
Wouldst thou not toil to shake the tyrant off?
Would not thy bosom burn as with a fire?
Wouldst thou not all things dare? bleed, die, to free
Thy country from the yoke? As for thyself
These things thou answer'st, so for us reply;
And we shall 'scape thy censure. For ourselves,
The lot is cast: be what may be th' event,
The struggle shall be made. The bondsman's breath
Too long we've drawn: we change, or breathe no more.
Nor think the fury of thy king we dread:
We know him vicious, sensual, gross, and vain;
And fitter, in a woman's garb, to sport
With wanton concubines, than head the fight:
Goodly to view; and with a soldier's limbs;
But hearted like a girl. Nor in yon host,—

Invincible, thou sayst, to tread us down,—
Doubt we, before to-morrow night, to find
Myriads of bosoms burning like our own;
And swords with ours to join: and, for ourselves—
Cast round thine eye—methinks no few are here;
Nor men with women's hearts. But, for th' event,
Rest that with Heaven! the struggle is for us;
Nor shall the sword, now wakened, sleep again,
Until Assyria's tyranny be quelled,
Or we in earth laid low!”

His vehement speech,
Fire flashing from his eyes, there ended he;
And from the listening multitude went up
Bursts of applause.

Nebaioth once again,
His anger holding back, thus made reply.
“Is this the answer that the king must hear?
Oh! pause awhile! for your own doom ye speak.
Wake not the flame that will consume you all!
Stir not the lion when his wrath would sleep;
For, rising, he will rend you!”

At that word—
His dark cheek flushed, and fury in his eyes,—
Cried Abdolonimus: “Fool us no more
With flame, and lions! Are we girls, or babes,
Thus to be scared with bugbears? Haste away;
And bear our answer to thy lion-king;
Whom we shall quickly stir; nor dread his rage,
Roar as he may. And, to astound thee more,
Even to his teeth I do defiance send:
Call him a glutton, drunkard, coward, beast!
And will upon him, all I say, make good,
With this good sword; if he dare wield his own,
And front me in the field.”

Nebaioth then:
“Enough, enough; I plead with you no more:
Your blood be on your heads! But whom, of all,
Name you the leader? for to him some words
Must yet be spoken.”

Stepping quickly forth,

To him Almelon: “What thou hast to say,
Say unto all; nor guilefully” . . . .

Thus he,
Timidly cautious. But, to silence him,
Out spake Belesis. Pointing to the Mede,
“Behold our leader; by the general voice,
This day appointed; but, by Heaven, long since:
Our ruler now; and, ere long, to be thine;
When yon proud city shall be black with fire;
Her walls o'erthrown, and her foul tyrant slain;
Then thy knee, too, shall bend, and own his sway,
As now we own it.”

To Arbaces then
Nebaioth, turning, spake. “Of all men here,
Of all men living, most unwillingly
On thee I speak the doom; for, with thy name,
Hath praise been ever joined. Henceforth, alas!
Reproach and infamy must blacken it!
Even in the sight of these, misled, and lost,
Do I proclaim thee traitor! By no law
Stand'st thou protected: he who seeks thy life,
Blameless, may take it—”

There, in deafening roar,
Ended his threatening: for, to madness fired,
Burst in the soldiers—with one dreadful voice,
Calling to slay him.

On his startled steed
Unawed Nebaioth sat: but, instantly,
Arbaces stood beside him,—drew his sword,—
O'er all the din uplifted his great voice;
And, with the words of stern authority,
And aspect terrible, silenced every man.
Ashamed, they soon retired. Arbaces then
Thus to Nebaioth:

“Now, ere worse betide,
Haste—and be gone. Thy bidding hast thou done
Boldly, and well; and our firm answer heard.
Farther discourse were useless; and the time
Craves deeds, not words. Farewell.”

Then, looking round,

Two brothers he espied; of Lydian race;
Gentle, and valiant, both, and well beloved.
One hour had given them birth; and, as in age,
So, both in form, and feature were they matched,
That, which they saw, men doubted while they looked.
Their dress, their arms alike; alike their steeds;
Milk-white, without a spot, and swift as wind.
These seen, Arbaces called, and briefly thus:
“Abida, and Abdeel; with honor lead
This faithful servant hence. Ungenerous thoughts
Inflame the soldiers; and some ill, perchance,
Unguarded, might befall him. But with speed
Away; and tarry not.”

Nebaioth then,
Sorrow and anger on his darkened brow,
Wheeled round his horse; bowed silently, and went:
With him the herald; and, on either side,
Proud of their task, the youths.

At once broke up
The mighty gathering;—chiefs and soldiers pressed,
To rank them for the battle.

But, meantime,
Within the gorgeous chamber of the king,
Stood Salamenes; in his startled ear,
Of foul rebellion telling. From his bed
Upsprang the monarch: “Bring my arms,” he cried;
“I will myself go forth and trample them.
Arms—arms—bring arms. What! think they I am lost?
Or dead? or helpless? Let the priests be called;
They shall consult the gods. They think it quenched,
Because so long my splendor hath been hid
From vulgar eyes; but they shall find the blaze
Too dazzling for them yet. Fool have I been
To let my power thus sleep. The thundering God
Himself would be derided, did he leave
The lightnings slumbering in his idle hands.
But I am waked; and let them dread the bolts.”

So speaking, he his radiant arms 'gan don,
Burning to strike the blow. But, at the door,

Kneeling, with head bowed down, a priest appeared:
“Ha, Timna,” cried the king, “haste—offer up,
Thou and thy train, a sacrifice. A beast
Is come upon the earth; a dragon fierce;
And him Assyria's lion would destroy.
Ask of the gods the event; then, on the plain,
Seek me, and tell their will.”

Rose then the priest,
And answered him: “Thy servants, king of kings!
Shall do thy bidding. But, what beast is this;
The dragon that—”

Him, with impetuous speech,
The monarch stopped; “What idle talk is this!
A priest, and prophet thou, yet ask of me?
Away with thee: he lies on yonder plain,
Hundreds of thousands strong.”

The priest bent low;
Made answer none; but trembled, and withdrew.

All, save the head, in dazzling armour clad,
Stood now the king: but, when the helm was brought,
Aside he put it; and bade fetch the crown.
Then, placing on his brow the golden round,
Burning with gems, “The soldiers shall this day
Their monarch see. Haste—in the chariot place
My helmet for the battle; darts, and spears;
Bow, and full quiver: for, by Nimrod's shade!
The foremost in the bloody chase I'll be.”

Wondering, admiring, Salamenes gazed;
Then, while around the monarch's loins he girt
The falchion, sheathed as in one blazing gem,
With belt gem-starred, “Oh! hadst thou ever thus
Been what the gods designed thee—”

But his words
The king broke short: “Hold, hold; I know the rest.
That which I am, I am. Bring wine. One draught,
To take the weight from these uncustomed arms;
Then, to the field.”

He said, and drained the cup:
Yet, ere he went, made pause; and in his heart
Thus questioned. “To the battle many speed
Who never will return! Shall I not see
My children, ere I leave them! To my queen
One word of kindness speak? perchance my last!
And the gay partners of my midnight joys,
Shall I not give to them one parting smile,
And bid them think of me when—fool! fool! fool!
They love thee not; and would but mock at thee.
On to the field! Who are not slain, will live;
And they who die, will rest; and nothing know.”

He said; and down the massive marble stairs
Strode, in his clanking arms. The chariot stood,
Bright as a flame, before the palace door,
Awaiting him; at every horse's head,
A pale-faced groom, who, with the impatient steed,
Struggled for mastery. As to the car
He 'gan to mount, lo! with her youngest child,
The queen Atossa from another door
Came forth; but knew him not; and onward walked.
The king beheld, and to himself thus said.
“She scorns me ever: yet, this day, methinks
I have not ill deserved. But woman's mind
Is past even rule of monarchs. Be it so!”
Speaking, he caught the reins—leaped up—a seat
At his left hand, to Salamenes signed—
And let the horses go.

Beyond the gate,
Stand numerous cars; and horsemen by their steeds;
Awaiting till Assyria's royal sun,
So long eclipsed, shall from the portal blaze,
To dazzle mortal eyes.

He comes at length:
The thunder of the wheels is heard within:
On its smooth hinges turning noiselessly,
Wide flies the gate: sounds them the tramp of hoofs:
And the rich pageant, like a bursting flame,
Strikes on their startled eyes. Four milk-white steeds,

In golden trappings; barbed in brass and gold,
Spring through the gate: the lofty chariot then,
Brass-sheathed, gold-plated thick, and burnished bright,
That, in the blaze of sunshine rolling on,
It seems embodied lightning. Brass the wheels,
Gold-burnished also; spoke, and massive nave;
The axles polished steel. Behind the car,—
Of clustered diamonds, flame a sun, horned moon,
And planets, each a quivering diamond.
Such was the chariot of the king of kings.

Himself in dazzling armour sits aloft,
And rules the fiery steeds. His shield of gold,
His spear, and helmet, bow, and quiver, rest
Within the roomy car. Resplendent thus,
Forth from the gate he comes; and every knee
Bends to the ground; and every voice cries out,
“Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!” Thrice he smiles,
And waves his hand to all; and thrice the shouts
To heaven go up. Then, on his starting horse,
Springs every rider; every charioteer
Leaps to his car. Along the sounding streets
The pageant flames; upon the plain pours forth;
And louder evermore, and louder peals,
A deafening shout, “The king! the king! the king!
The king of kings in his war-chariot comes!
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!”

Like a god,
Through the low-bowing host the monarch drives;
High over all conspicuous, the bright crown,
Like an ethereal fire, through all the field
Flashing incessant light. From rank to rank,
From nation unto nation, he goes on;
And still all knees are bent, all voices raised,
As to a deity.

Then swells his breast
With glory, and with shame, and high resolve:
With glory of his pomp and power; with shame

For years of sloth and guilt; with high resolve
For his whole life to come. Delusion bright!
Meantime Nebaioth, from his fruitless task
All sorrowful returning, saw far off
The dazzling chariot and the burning crown,
And cried: “behold the king! to him the first
Shall the dread tale be told. Herald, sound out.”
Then with his trumpet did the herald blow:
The soldiers at his summons parted wide;
And they passed on.

Them Salamenes saw,
Yet distant, and thus spake. “Nebaioth comes,
Whom to the rebel chiefs this morn I sent:
Will the king hear his words?”

“Assuredly;
Command him hither,” was the prompt reply;
“Myself will hear him.”

To Nebaioth soon
The word was given, and swiftly he sped on.
Arrived at length, from off his horse he leaped;
Bowed to the earth; arose, and humbly said;
“May the king live for ever! Let my tongue
Bring not on me the wrath of earth's dread lord,
Because the words I speak displeasing be.”

To him the monarch: “Say thou on: fear nought.
What men are these rebellious? What their strength?
Their leaders who? And what their mad design?”

Nebaioth then, low bowing, thus replied.
“Foremost of all, against the king of kings,
Arabians, Persians, Medes, their impious arms
Have dared uplift; but, of yet other lands,
No few there are, and desperate; blind, and deaf;
In prophecies trusting, and deceitful dreams;
This mighty city to the spoiler's hand
Fore-dooming, and her ashes to the winds:
Above them all, by universal voice,
This morn elected chief, is he whom, long,
My dearest friend, noble and true, I deemed;
Arbaces, king of Media. But, alas!
For a foul traitor, even in the sight

Of all his host, have I denounced him now.
Yet less in him the daring rebel shows
Than in the priest Belesis: he the minds
Of the fierce soldiers fires with wildest thoughts;
Prognosticating, pointing up to heaven;
Inciting, threatening: him, of all, I dread;
For, on his words the credulous people hang,
As on a voice from God. Their multitude,
I cannot sum; but many, and fierce they are;
Resolved, and insolent.”

While thus he spake,
The king, with gleaming eye, and countenance flushed,
Wrathful, astonished, listened: started then;
Stood in his chariot, and cried out, “Away!
Sound all the trumpets! shake the flags on high!
Cry out aloud, ‘To battle every man!’
Away! away!”

Speaking, he raised the scourge:
But quickly Salamenes started up;
“Hold! hold!” he said, “and be not wroth, O king!
For that I counsel thee. Go not to fight;
For now men's hearts are troubled; and they look
To this side, and to that; and are afraid
For what may come: but, throughout all the host
Pass thou this day; and show thy countenance:
From out thy treasures let much gold be brought,
And given unto the soldiers; to each man
A piece of gold; so shall their hearts be thine,
And thou shalt vanquish all thine enemies.
Likewise, let heralds of all nations go
Through every legion, and cry out aloud,
‘Thus saith Sardanapalus, king of kings:
Of every fighting man before the walls,
Or in the city, let not one depart;
But hither speed, to tread rebellion down;
For, on the morrow shall his wrath go forth,
And scatter all his foes.’”

To him the king;
“Wise is thy counsel. Be it as thou sayst.”
At once, unanswering, from the royal car
Leaped Salamenes; and the heralds sought.

As he passed forth, the summoned priests drew nigh;
Before the chariot paused; kneeled, and bowed down
Their faces to the earth. To them the king:
“Arise ye holy men; and say aloud
That which the Gods have shown you; so all ears
May hear the will of Heaven.”

With joyful look,
Uprose the priests; and Timna spake aloud.
“O king, for ever live! be the king glad!
For, all his foes shall he quell utterly,
And scatter them like dust: the dragon's fangs
Shall he rend forth; shall break his iron scales;
Pour out his poisonous blood; and fling his bones
Down to the darksome pit!”

So boldly he;
And all that heard him, clapped the hand, and cried,
“Long live the king! may the king live for ever!”

But, nigh the car an Israelitish seer
Went fearlessly; his hand uplift, and spake.
“Give not, O king! unto the false one's tongue
Thine ear; nor let thy heart with pride be filled.
Jehovah hath his hand stretched over thee;
And over all thy people; for the sins
Which ye repent not. In the days gone by,
This wicked city, at the prophet's voice,
Repented; and the Lord her doom withheld:
So if ye also listen; and the ways
Of sin forsake; and unto Israel's God
Your proud hearts humble; haply, even yet,
The awful doom, pronounced, He will recall;
And ye may live: but, your iniquities
If ye repent not, and confess—behold!
The fierceness of His anger will go forth;
And ye will perish; and this Nineveh,
This great and glorious Nineveh; this queen
Of all the cities, will be overthrown;
And seen no more at all upon the earth.
King of Assyria, hearken to my words:
Forsake the path of thine iniquity:
To Israel's God cry ye unceasingly,—

Thou, and thy people all—that He may turn
His outstretched arm aside, and smite you not.
Beware the banquet! O'er thine enemies—
Even as these false ones, prophets not of God,
But of the Spirit accurs'd, and to thy harm
Have taught thee, and thy pride the more to lift—
Awhile thou may'st be victor: but—beware!
I have beheld; and lo! a banquet spread;
A midnight revelry; an eastern king,
With all his lords, and captains, and his hosts,
Rejoicing; and the women of the land,
With timbrel, harp, song, dance, and wanton wile,
Their hearts delighting: but behold! there came
The chariot, and the war-horse, and the sword,
Suddenly on them: with their blood the earth,
As with long rain, was steeped; and, with the slain,
As with the hailstones when the storm is loosed,
The plain was covered. After that, behold!
The floods upheaped against the city came;
The tempest, and the earthquake, and the fire:
And hosts like to the sands for multitude:
And, of that mighty city, not a stone
Upon another standing was there left!
King of Assyria! harden not thy heart;
But to the servant of the living God
Give ear; so may it yet be well with you.”

Thus having said, upon the king he looked
With eye of solemn warning; turned, and went.
Nor could the monarch answer; for those words,
And that dread aspect, held him motionless.
Confused he sat, and silent; in his breast,
Anger, and pride, and awe till then unknown,
Alternate ruling: but at length he spake.
“What man is this, who to Assyria's king
Evil hath threatened? whence, and who is he?”

Before him lowly bowed a priest, and said:
“O king of kings! a stranger in the land
Is he; unknown, and scorned; a wretched seer
Of that down-trodden Israel, who their God

Above Assyria's God in might extol;
Blaspheming: but as one possessed is he:
For, through the city, with uplifted hands,
These three days hath he gone, and cried aloud,
‘Beware! beware! the day of wrath is nigh!
The day of vengeance on great Nineveh!
The sword, the flood, the earthquake, and the fire;
Have heard Jehovah's voice; and wait the sign!’
So hath he still cried out; and, as he cries,
The people laugh, and point, and mock at him.
Let not the king be troubled at his words.”

Thus having spoken, he bowed low; and stood,
Awaiting if, perchance, the king might speak.
But, in most strange bewilderment, long time
Sat the proud monarch, speechless; then, at length;
“Seer, or impostor, wondrous are his words;
And will not from me pass. Speed after him:
Bid him more heedfully his Gods consult,
And better augury find; so to the king
Well pleasing he would be. Within his hand
This jewel place: and, when the sun hath set,
Unto the palace let him come; and stand
Again before me; and from Israel's Gods,—
What Gods soe'er they be,—the answer speak.”

Thus saying, from his chariot he leaned down;
And, in the palm of the much wondering priest,
A flaming gem let fall: slacked then the reins;
And the steeds bounded on.

But, toward the seer
The priests made speed: and, when their lord's command
They had fulfilled,—with proud and angry voice,
Thus spake the high priest Timna: “Who art thou
That darest before the king of kings stand forth,
Presumptuous! in his royal ear to pour
Thy breath pestiferous? What words are these,
Infatuate! thou hast spoken, that have cast
A cloud upon his face? and knowest thou not
That, where Chaldea's high priest stands, thy tongue
Should never dare to wag? But thou hast got

Thy guerdon, and art satisfied. Beware!
For I can crush thee.”

With a look of hate,
Clenching the hand, and stamping with the foot,
He ended, turned, and went.

Undauntedly,
To him the seer. “Stay; hear me. For the words
That to the king I spake, with God, not man,
Shall I account: but, for this gaudy gem,—
My guerdon, as thou sayst,—I sought it not;
Nor covet it. My recompense must be
Far higher; and from higher hand. 'Tis thine,
If thou wilt stoop to lift it.”

Saying thus,
Upon the ground the flaming stone he threw:
Turned quickly, went his way, and looked not back.

Astonished, a few hasty strides advanced
The incensed high priest; but stopped; shot after him
Looks of black hate; then muttered, “Let him go!
What he hath here thrown down, shall him throw down:
Thou, little blood-red stone, shalt be the type
Of his own blood, so cast upon the earth,
As thou by him wert cast.” That said, he stooped,
And lifted up the gem.

The king, meantime,
Flew o'er the plain; and everywhere the cries,
Unceasing, tore the air. But, in his heart,
Oft rose a pang, when on the words he thought
Of that strange Hebrew: yet, upon his brow,
No cloud he suffered; but spake cheerfully;
Fame, to the valiant; to the needy, wealth;
Power, rank, to the ambitious; unto all,
Eternal honor promising. Oft, too,
He thought upon the banquet, and the joys
Of long night-revel. “But one parting night!
To-morrow comes the battle: I may fall:
Then will these last and precious hours be lost;
And all my glory vanish like the smoke.
But, that stern prophet stands before me still,

And checks me with his eye. Pale fears, begone!
Music, and love, and wine, this night I'll have,
Though, ere the next, come death!”

So, all the day,
From host to host he went: but, ere the sun
His weary horses in the earth's dark shade
Drove down to slumber—through the palace gates
He passed; from his tired limbs the armour doffed;
Bathed, and the banquet sought.

But, from his toil,
No rest found Salamenes: through the camp,
From nation unto nation, still he flew:
With prospect of great honor, fame, and rank,
The chiefs inciting; with the promised gold,
Cheering the soldiers. Nor in vain he toiled;
For many a wavering mind, unto the king
He turned again; and many a lukewarm heart
Inflamed with zeal; that, for the morning's fight
They thirsted.

Yet not all; for, when deep night,
O'er the vast plain her darkening veil had drawn,—
The hosts expected by the Medes set forth.
Of other armies, also, in small bands,
Went many thousands; moving cautiously:
Some, for their homes departing; some, to escape
The perils of the battle; most, to join,
With heart and hand, the banner of the free.

But, where the Bactrians camped; and all the hosts
From Sogdiana, northward, to the south
Of Arachosia, by the banks of Ind;
Ahab, the Bactrian leader, to his tent
The chiefs convened; and boldly thus began.

“What shall we now? Our year of servitude
Is past; and we are free. What means the king?
The service we consented to, is paid;
What would he more? For us what hath he done;
For Arachosia, Sogdiana, what;
That we should love him, and our blood pour out,
To do him service? No! the love we owe,

Is such as, to the lion, owes his prey;
Such as the vanquished to their conqueror owe:
And such, while he can force it, will we give;
Not longer. Why our services claimed he?
Because he was the mightier; and his hosts
More numerous far. But lo! his strength is shorn:
Armies, once his, start up his enemies:
What was his strength, becomes his weakness now:
That which upheld, now threats to drag him down.
Well then? what claim to service hath he left?
What asks he? Gain to him, great loss to us,
That we the Babylonians, Persians, Medes,
Arabians; and of many a land beside,
In mortal strife should meet. What enmity
To these owe we? As hither we came on,
All were our friends: shall we requite them thus?
For what? for whom? We are prepared for march,
Not battle; and our wives and children look,
To see us home. Shall we remain to die,
Or put our friends to death, when we may turn
Toward our own hearths our unmolested feet;
And clasp our wives and children in our arms;
Our sisters, mothers, and our grey-haired sires,
Whose feeble limbs now miss their rightful staffs,
And whose dim eyes still overflow with tears,
Thinking of us? Who, for the high renown
Of dying here to uphold Assyria's throne,
Now falling, is ambitious,—let him stay,
And perish, and be glorious: but, for us,
Who are not greatly covetous of praise,
So bought; nor feel much debt of gratitude;
Let us go rather on our homeward road,
Inglorious though the path, than win renown
By lying on Assyria's battle-field,
Even mid a thousand foes. Ye have my mind:
If this my counsel please—send forth the word;
And, by the midnight hour, let all the host
Stand ready for the march: in van the foot;
And—bulwark 'gainst pursuit—the horsemen all,
And chariots, in the rear.”

With clamorous din,
All cried to strike the tents, and journey back;
For, with the thoughts of home, their hearts were sick;
Tears filled their eyes. Impatient to be gone,
Then to the door they pressed; but, with loud voice,
The Arachosian leader, Azareel,
Called on them, and they turned.

“Stay; stay, my friends!
And think again. Oh! whither would ye fly,
Dishonored and debased? not to your wives;
For they would spurn you back, and hiss at you:
Not to your fathers; they would scoff at you:
Not to your children; they would blush for you,
Deserting thus your friends. Oh! are ye lost
So poorly in the childish love of home,
That glory, honor, all which men hold dear,
Seem worthless in your eyes? and would ye, then,
Like trembling thieves, at midnight steal away;
When on the morrow may the trumpets sound;
And twice a million swords and bucklers clash,
In strife for half the world; which, as you act,
From bondage may be freed, or worse be bound!
What! think ye, if the tyrant conquer here,
That even in farthest Ind ye may be safe?
Think ye to leave him when he needs you most;
Yet have his thanks and love? Or, can you deem
The contest doubtful: and so matched the force,
That ye in safe neutrality may rest;
Of peace assured, without the cost of war;
Left, wisely, to your friends? Ah! hope it not!
Folly and baseness only so could dote!
Your choice is twain; against, or for the king:
For him to combat, and be meanly safe;
Fettering, and fettered more; and knowing still
That, had ye not been base, ye had been free—
Or, else, against him; to your last red drop,
Standing in fight for liberty, or death;
For glory, or the grave! Here take your choice;
No other course ye have, save what is foul,
Foolish and dangerous?”

With impassioned tone,
Thus warned he; yet, his words they heeded not;
But cried aloud to strike the tents, and fly.

Still, he again with fervency called out,
Conjuring them; and Japhet, by his side,
His only son, who, for his father, begged
Their patient hearing. But, with words of mirth
They answered him; and hurried from the tent.

Them following quick, with stern uplifted voice,
Thus Azareel. “Fly, fly, ye valiant men!
Your wives are waiting for you: get you gone,
While yet 'tis dark, and safe to steal away:
But, speed ye; for, to-morrow, swords will clash,
And blood will stream. Oh shame! eternal shame!
How will your names be blackened by this deed!
How will you curse yourselves, and be accursed!
Friend-leavers! pleasure-seekers! in the hour
Of trouble and of death! Haste! haste, brave men!”

So he; while, loudly laughing at his zeal,
On went the mirthful captains; eager all
For joys of home, peace, feasting, dance, and love.

Loudest of all, the taunting laugh was heard
Of Nahor; for, in place of Azareel,
The faithful dolt! he now would hold the rule.

With angry brow, the Arachosian stood,
Listening the laugh, the merry jest, or scoff;
Then, when a silence came, to Japhet thus:
“They're gone; and will the minds of all the host
Strive to seduce! But, let us after them;
And, whom we may, to better thoughts incline:
All may not yet be lost.”

At swift pace then
They followed, and, the rearmost captains soon
O'ertaking, with a love of nobler things,
Though vainly, strove to inspire them.

At the feast,
Amid his beauteous concubines, meantime,
Sardanapalus sat; and revelled high;
And thought no more of treason, or of war.
Music, and wine, and love, his heart inflamed;

His eye shone vividly, his cheek was flushed:
Loud was his laughter, jocund his discourse;
Yet, many a whisper in some favored ear
He breathed; an amorous glance oft cast around
On eyes that glanced again. But, suddenly,
Waked in his mind remembrance of the seer,
And that strange warning. Darkened grew his brow;
And silence came upon him. Roused at length,
“Call in the Israelitish priest,” he cried;
“Send the musicians hence. And you, fair dames,
Haste to the garden, while yet sunset gleams,
And gather flowers. I'll come to you anon.
Weave for my brow a regal coronal
Of ivy, twined with jessamine and rose;
For I will be God Bacchus, this sweet night;
The stars shall light our dance. Azubah, thou,
Abiah too, and Ephah, stay with me.”

Swift, at the word, upsprang light feet; bright eyes,
And ardent faces, for a moment glowed,
And passed away: then, in the fragrant air,
Sweet voices rose—died off, and all was still.

Before the frowning monarch came the seer,
Yet bowed not, nor spake word. With angry eye,
The king awhile in silence on him looked;
Then sternly thus.

“What man art thou, bold priest!
Who of the king hast dared to make thy mock?
What higher guerdon, sayst thou, must be thine?
And whose that higher hand must give it thee?”

One step the seer advanced; toward Heaven his arm
Uplift; and spake. “My guerdon is with God!
HIS that far mightier hand must give it me.
Not for the love of gold, or precious stones,
Came I before thee; but from Israel's Lord” . . .

“Hold!” sternly interrupting, cried the king;
“And heed, bold prophet! lest that mightier hand
Come not to save thee, when this weaker falls,
To crush thee into dust! No answer, priest:
And lift not here thy face unto thy Gods.
Guerdon enough for thee had been one word

Upon thy dog bestowed; yet thou must prate
Of higher hands; and scornfully throw back
A monarch's gift. But, now make swift amend;
With better augury than was thy first;
And I forgive thee. Fill a golden cup,
Azubah; and bestow it on the seer:
And, when he hath the sparkling juice drained down,
Within his bosom let him place the gold;
And think upon the king. For me, too, fill
A goblet. Nay, a wider, deeper bowl;
And to the brim.”

Azubah then arose,
Kneeled down, and said, “I pray thee, drink not now;
Lest that the priest incense thee; and thy wrath
Be heated by the draught.”

With smiling face,
The monarch raised her, and himself filled up,
With ruby wine, a goblet to the brim.
“Bear thou,” he said, “a cup unto the priest:
And have for me no fear. Prophet, thy cheek
Is ghastly as a death upon a tomb:
But, drink thou deep of that celestial blood,
And it will make thee ruddy as the morn,
And cheerful as the lark; and brighten, too,
Thy gloomy eye; that clearer may'st thou read
The will of the great gods. Stretch, then, thy hand;
Drink; and be strong.”

He ended; took himself
The fatal bowl, and drank. Yet still the seer
Obeyed him not; but, with averted head,
And hand repellant, signed away the cup.
To him the monarch; “What confounds thee thus?
Dost fear in presence of the king to drink?
But, 'tis himself commands thee. Drain it off;
Then shalt thou read a happier augury
Than the foul nightmare-vision of this morn.”

To him, with solemn tone, the pale-browed seer.
“The wine-cup never yet hath touched my lips;
Nor fevered my calm eye, to make it see,
For truth, false, pleasing lies; nor shall it now;

For, unto Heaven a solemn oath I swore;
And will not on my soul bring perjury.”

Staring upon him, sat the astonished king:
Then, on the ivory table, gem inlaid,
Smote with his hand. “What? how? art mad!” he cried:
“Thou most audacious man! A king hears not
Of oath forbidding what himself hath bid!
What matter unto me thy vows insane?
Or if as hell thou'rt black with perjuries?
Infatuate! Yet on this I waste not words:
Drink, or refrain, poor lunatic! but speak:
Hast thou with nobler offerings sought thy Gods?
And what the answer? Tell me not again
That fire, and water, menace. Am not I
Sardanapalus, of all kings the king?
Do not all nations at my throne bow down?
And, by the babbling stream, and sputtering flame,
Shall I be threatened? and the banquet too?
Thou foolish seer! bethink thee who I am;
And prophesy more wisely.”

Thus spake he,
Flushed with the draught: yet still again he laid
His hand upon the goblet: but the seer,
Advancing, said aloud, “Forbear, O king!
Touch never more the poison of the cup;
For, as I live, and as thou livest—”

“Wretch!”
Roared out the king; upstarting, hurling down
The ringing goblet; “dar'st to tutor me?
Thy life may answer it! take heed; take heed!”

But, undeterred, the seer prepared to speak;
When, timidly, upon his robe, her hand
Azubah laid; and, with faint, tremulous voice,
Thus whispered, “Oh! incense not so the king,
Thou holy man! for dreadful is his wrath;
And deadly now, with cursëd fumes of wine
Inflamed: for his sake, as for thine, be wise;
And with soft words his wrathful spirit soothe.”

So she, with looks imploring, as with words.

But, on her pale, bright face the prophet gazed;
Then thrust her from him. “Woman!” he exclaimed;
“Get back, and touch me not! I know thee now;
The harlot that Rabsaris once called child!
Ay! let it sink thee! But, no words are mine
To soothe the guilty in his moody ire:
I stand to tell the doom of wrathful Heaven;
And for man's anger heed not. Hear me, king.
The avenging arm is stretched to punish thee!
The banquet, and the earthquake, and the fire,
Ruin will bring upon thee! to the Mede
Thy crown and realm will pass! Yet, unto God,
To Israel's God, turn humbly: thy great guilt
Confess; and purify from sin the land;
So may thy soul yet live!”

As from a blow,
Beneath his scornful eye Azubah shrank;
And trembled while he spake: her burning face
Then covered with her hands; sobbed out aloud;
And sank upon the floor.

From out his den
As glares a hungry lion; hearing nigh
The growl of tiger o'er his bloody meal;
So, on the Hebrew, death-like pale, awhile,
With fury inexpressible glared the king:
Suddenly then upstarted; at a bound,
Maniac-like, with outstretched arms, sprang on;
Seized; dashed him headlong.

On the marble floor
The body fell; rebounded; fell again:
From head to foot with a sharp quiver shook;
Stretched—stiffened—and lay still.

A piercing shriek
Rang through the hall. Death-white, with trembling lips,
And sinking limbs, Abiah hastened out,
And Ephah, sick with horror; turning still
To look on what they feared. But, from the floor,
Her face like moon-lit stone, Azubah rose:
Behind the monarch tottered; grasped his robe;
Spake not, nor looked; but, trembling head to foot,

With one hand, brow and temples tightly clasped;
And, with the other, gently strove to draw
The murderer from the slain.

Pale, breathless, weak,
Amazed, with quivering lip, the monarch stood,
And stared upon the corse. The corse on him,
With open mouth, and ghastly, glaring eye,
Seemed staring back again. Azubah still
Drew at his robe; yet could not stir him thence;
So fixed with horror stood he: but, at length,
From his racked breast these faltering words broke forth.

“What deed is this! Am I awake? Lo! then,
Already is one threatening come to pass!
The banquet!—ha! the banquet! this it is
He bade me shun; the poison of the cup!
But he was crazed, and insolent.—Fool! fool!
Why did he dare me when my blood was hot?
What could he hope? And my Azubah, too,
He called a harlot; thrust her to the earth.
Caitiff! he had his due. But not from me;
Not from my arm the judgment should have fallen,
If ever fallen. A horrid deed is this!
Let us away. To-morrow shall he have—
To-morrow? ha! I do bethink me now:
A hundred thousand, now alive, may have
Their funeral to-morrow. Yet this one
More shocks me than—. I will not think upon't!
The wine-cup, and these lips, no more shall meet;
Or but as strangers, coldly. Come away.”
He ceased; upon the corse a moment looked;
Shivered, and gasped; took then her arm, and went.

“And David took the crown of their king (Hadarezer) from off his head, and found it to weigh a talent of gold, and there were precious stones in it.” —1 Chronicles, xx. 2.

'Twas midnight now: the lately risen moon,
With pallid face, as if unwillingly,
Seemed walking heaven's great highway. On the plain
Gleamed faintly the moist herbage: shadows drear
And long, from lofty and umbrageous trees,
Slept on the earth: pale light, and dreamy shade

Covered the distant city; her huge towers,
Like a Titanic Watch, all standing mute;
And, in the centre, like the spectre-form
Of perished Saturn, or some elder god,
The dim vast mound. 'Neath tent, or on bare earth,
In sleep profound the insurgent armies lay;
Some, of the battle dreaming; some, of love;
Of home, and smiling wives and infants, some:
The chase, some urged; some, at the wine-board sat;
Drinking unmeasured draughts; yet thirsting still.

But, wakeful, at the entrance of his tent,
Sat their great leader, silent, lost in thought
On what the morn might bring. Few paces off,
Wrapped in his mantle, on the dewy grass
Stretched as in sleep, but, with wide opened eyes,
On the stars gazing, lay the soldier priest.
Deep was the hush. At length, Arbaces stirred;
To this side and to that, inclined the head,
Listening. A sound he heard, or seemed to hear,
As of a torrent-flood amid the hills;
Far off, unheard till then. Gently he rose;
Fitted behind his ears both hollowed palms;
Drew in long breath; and yet more eagerly,
Caught at the doubtful murmur. Suddenly,
Shading his brow, across the spacious plain,
Long, earnestly, he gazed: twice closed his eyes,
And opened them; then spake. “Belesis, up:
Look forth, I pray thee; for the gleam of arms
Far off, methinks I see.”

Upsprang the priest;
Looked out intentively awhile, then thus.
“So long with yon bright host have I communed,
That now mine eyes are dazzled, and see ill.
Where thou dost point, the Bactrians are encamped,
And those from Sogdiana to the south:
Least likely they of all, with zeal o'erhot,
Night-onset, for the tyrant, to commence;
And, if they come, be sure, as friends they come.”

Still was he speaking, when Arbaces thus,
Smiting upon his thigh: “By all the Gods!

It is the enemy coming! Sound the alarm!”
But instantly a distant voice replied,
“Hold! hold! blow not the trumpet; we are friends.”
Came then the tramp of steeds; loud breathings soon;
And, in few moments, halted near the tent
Three panting horses. Lightly to the earth
The riders leaped; and toward Arbaces walked.
With hand upon the hilt prepared stood he;
But, when they nigher drew, he, too, advanced;
Touched on the arm the foremost, and exclaimed:
“Abdeel? What brings thee here? And who be these?”
Closer upon them looking while he spake,
At once he knew them; “Japhet? Azareel?
Welcome, most welcome; for your faces show,
And your warm grasp, that not as foes ye come.
But answer quickly; what is yonder host,
At midnight marching? Are they friends, or foes?”

Then Azareel: “Foes are they, and yet friends:
Friends, that not foes; foes, that not friends they be.
They will not, against us, the tyrant aid;
Nor us against the tyrant; but their homes,
Their ease inglorious, preferable hold
To noblest ends, by toil and danger won.
We, with some hundreds of a better mind,
Whom at the outskirts of your camp we left,—
Of all the Eastern armies, come alone,
To aid your glorious struggle: but the rest,
A hundred thousand fighting men thrice told,
Now journey homeward.”

“Back shall they be turned,”
Exclaimed the priest; “nor see as yet their wives:
For, or against us, shall they come again:
But, either way, victors we still shall be;
For it is written; and must come to pass.”

Arbaces then: “Oh! had but nobler thoughts
Moved them with us to stand! then had escaped
Myriads, that now will fall: for contest hard,
And long must be, such disproportioned strength
Ere we can vanquish: nor their labor light,
Our fewer numbers, with strong spirit armed,

To utterly o'ercome. But, in the gods
Our trust is; who our foes can put to flight,
Though numerous as the atoms of the dust
That follows on their trampling! Enter now
My tent, I pray you; and abide till morn:
For, with the dawn must we be stirring all;
And midnight is gone by.”

Thus he; and drew
The curtain of the tent that they might pass.
But Azareel replied, “Our followers wait
Till we return; and we must hasten back.
Not less, for thy kind bidding, take our thanks.”

To them Arbaces, as their hands he grasped,
And bade adieu: “Our thanks, the rather, take;
For that, amid a mean and selfish host,
Ye stood the only noble: fare ye well.”

A like salute made they; and soon were gone.
The hollow trample of their coursers' feet
Died quickly off; and all again was still.

A little while Belesis and the chief
Stood yet in low discourse. To heaven, at length,
The priest upraised his arms, and pallid brow;
Praying in silence: then around him girt
His mantle; and, with face still toward the sky,
Stretched on the earth his limbs. A moment yet
Arbaces stood, and on the camp looked round;
With palms close pressed, then heavenward turned his eyes;
Drew softly back the curtain of the tent;
Bowed low his lofty head; and passed within.

BOOK THE FIFTH.

Within his splendid chamber; by all flowers
Of fragrance rare and exquisite perfumed;
Beneath a silken canopy, gold-dropped,
Reposed the guilty king. One crystal lamp,
With oil sweet-scented fed, its soft, pure ray
With the pale moonlight mingled.

As he slept,
Again the murderous deed he acted o'er:
The pale stern seer again cried out, “beware!”
Again with boundless rage his bosom heaved;
He rushed again to dash him headlong down;
But griped, instead, some hideous, nameless thing,
That with him struggled; crushed him to the earth;
And held him there; all shattered, yet alive.
Such was his agony. Above the couch
Azubah leaned, and gazed upon his face;
Guessing what stirred him thus: for, down his brow
The big drops ran; his teeth were set; hands clenched;
His limbs, as with the spasms of death, convulsed.

“Unhappy king!” she said; “by night and day,
The prey of passions strong and terrible!
Fierce in thy love; and fatal in thy rage;
Yet of a nature noblest,—wake, awake.”

Speaking, she stirred him: but the dream was strong,
And held him like a spell. He woke at length;
Started, with trembling limbs, and grasped her arm;

Glaring upon her with distorted face,
As on some monster. But, with soothing voice,
“'Tis I,” she said; “Azubah.”

At the sound,
His hands relaxed their gripe; his look grew calm;
One deep-drawn sigh he breathed; then backward sank;
Spake not; but on her gentle face gazed long,
Pressing her hand; for her of all he loved
With passion least debased.

But, at the gate
A trumpet-blast was heard. Half starting up,
He listened; and again the clang burst out.
“'Tis Salamenes,” cried he! “get thee hence;
Stay not to question; for that timeless note
Great good, or evil, omens.”

Stooping then,
His brow she kissed, and went. A rapid foot
Ere long upon the marble staircase rang;
And, soon, within the chamber, bright in arms,
Stood Salamenes. Breathless with his haste,
Into the ear of the indignant king
The new revolt he told; the Bactrians fled;
And all the nations of the farthest east.

Fierce as a roused-up lion sprang the king.
“Call up the soldiers,” he cried out, “pursue:
Soon shall we overtake them. Arms! my arms!
Traitors, and cowards! not a foot shall tread
Its native soil again! Away, away—
Sound out the trumpets.”

Salamenes then:
“Let not my lord judge rashly. The wild boar
Escaping, who would stay, when toward himself,
He saw the tiger coming? Better far
That they should fly, than with our enemies league.
More than enough, the audacious Mede to crush,
With us remain: but, by an ill-timed stroke,
Urge not the fliers, for commutual help,
Their arms with his to join; lest harder strife
Await us; and, by bad example lured,
Others as false may prove.”

To him the king:
“Wisely thou counsel'st: but the vengeful stroke,
Though for a while delayed, shall surely fall.
To-day the Mede shall sink; to-morrow they.
Away at once! the dawn begins to peep.
Arouse the camp; but silently. The bolt
Shall strike them, ere they dream the thunder nigh.
Worms! they shall know their lord.”

Speaking, he donned
His glittering arms; and dreadful was his wrath.

But, in the Median camp, meanwhile, calm sleep,
And silence reigned. With the pale moonlight now
Mingled the opening dawn. Their dull round trod,
With weary foot, the watchers of the night:
A thick grey mist o'erhung the earth; the trees,
The tents, all dripping with the plenteous dew.
Unstirred by any breath of air, down hung
The banners heavily.

From out his tent,
Bare-headed, and unarmed, Arbaces came;
And looked into the morn. On the moist earth,
Beneath the standard, lay the warrior-priest,
Face upward turned, as though he read the stars;
Yet in deep sleep. On him first looked the Mede;
Then toward the east; but thought day distant still;
And drew again the curtain of the tent;
Stooping to enter. But the tramp of steeds,
Far off, he caught, and paused. At rapid speed,
Nearer they came. Stirred by the Median's foot,
Uprose Belesis: from his mantle shook
The beaded dews, and spake. “Already up?
Befits it well the leader of a host,
Thus to watch heedfully. What light is this?
Of dawn? or clouded moon?”

“Of both, methinks,”
Quickly the Mede replied. “But who be these,
Spurring so early? From Iberia,
The ancient Syria, and Hyrcania,
The hosts expected, long since have arrived.
Comes, then, unhoped-for aid?”

Even while he spake,
Down from their smoking steeds two horsemen leaped,
And toward them hasted: Azareel the first;
And Japhet, who the panting horses led.
To them Arbaces. “Latest at the night,
At morn the earliest, ever welcome, friends:
What stirs you now, ere dawn hath oped her eyes?”

To him the Arachosian, hurriedly.
“From both the city, and the Assyrian camp,
The stir of arms is heard. Sudden assault
On us, yet sleeping, doubtless they intend:
Rouse thou the soldiers then, and first assault:
So shall themselves be taken in the toil,
Their cunning lays for us.”

To him the Mede:
“Wisely and bravely dost thou counsel me.
Let, then, the troops be waked; yet, silently:
No trumpet blown,—no noise that may give note,—
Let all in stillness put their armour on:
So, whatsoe'er may chance, we stand prepared.
But, rashly on the foe to make assault,
Unwise would be: for, in yon host, what hearts
Toward us incline, we know not; who, when time
Shall bring occasion; or their wavering minds
Settle aright; may joyfully their arms
With ours conjoin. Such might we wholly lose,
Harsh onset making on them. Our best part,
More to defer, than hasten on the fight:
For the vile worship of tyrannic power,
Too quickly learned, once questioned, quickly dies;
And, in its room, proud thoughts come crowding up,
Gendering defiance. Such in thousands now
Amid yon host are waking: but, when swords
Speak first, then doth the hot and angry blood
Disturb the reason: and to hatred turn
What might have grown to love.”

While yet he spake,
A horseman, riding furiously, drew nigh;
Leaped from his steed, bowed, and in haste began.
“Thus saith Rabsaris: ‘In the Assyrian camp

The stir of war is heard,—horse, chariots, foot.
Will not Arbaces bid the troops arise,
And arm them for the battle?’”

Ere he ceased,
From Abdolonimus another came;
From Azariah; from Almelon too;
Like message bearing each.

“Away at once!”
Cried then the chief; “let every man take arms:
But, silently; no trumpet blown; no sound,
To tell the foe our rising.”

In brief time,
Through all the camp a thousand ready steeds,
Flew rapidly. Anon was heard the clink
Of sword and mail; the tread of gathering feet;
The hum of earnest voices.

Bright in arms,
Quickly Arbaces stood. Brass was his helm,
Thick plated with bright gold; its crest, a plume,
Snow-white and tall, that, like some haughty dame,
Bent proudly as he trod. His shield was gold,
Massive, steel-lined: upon its ample field,
Blazing resplendent in bright-burnished gold,
The glory-circled sun, the moon, and stars
That o'er his birth-hour ruled: his corslet steel,
Bright as a mirror, and impassable deemed
To stroke of human strength: brazen his greaves,
Gold were his sandal-clasps: his ponderous sword—
Not to be wielded save by arm like his—
Damascan-tempered; of the purest steel;
Keen as a razor's edge: his left a spear,
His right hand grasped a mighty battle-axe.

Refulgent thus as from the tent he strode,
Suddenly fixed he stood;—a distant sound

Of onset catching. Instantly, swift horse
For tidings sent he; but himself stirred not:
Cautiously waiting, lest a feigned assault
Should lure him in a snare. Around him soon,
Command attending, many captains stood;
In silence stood, and listened: for the din
Louder arose; yet to the right, far off:
Calm elsewhere all.

But now, from out the south,
A gentle wind sprang up. In vast, dim wreaths,
Rolled on the mist; now opening; closing now;
Thickening; and opening still. By fits gleamed out
The distant city; its gigantic walls,
Through the thin vapour, to unearthly bulk
Enlarged; yet unsubstantial as the air
Appearing; or like city of the clouds;
Or architecture false of wizard's spells.
But, as the sun arose, one flood of light
Poured for an instant full upon the walls,
Turning them all to gold. That moment flew
Wide open the great central eastern gate:
And, by the blaze and flashing that came forth,
They knew the chariot of Assyria's king
Was issuing thence. Again the cloudy waves
Rolled on; and all was lost. Nor had appeared
Aught of the combat yet: but many horse
Returned anon, who told how Jerimoth
Had on the Babylonian infantry
Fierce onset made. Him to confront, flew then,
With horse and chariots, the Arabian king;
Close after them Belesis. On the earth,
Prostrate in prayer lay he, when came the word
Of that sharp onset. Starting, up he sprang;
For armour tarried not; but, on his head
Thrusting the helmet, caught up shield, sword, spear,
And leaped into his car.

The king, meantime,
From the gate issuing, with amazement heard
The din of war begun. Incensed, he cried,

“What means this boldness? Who, unbidden, dares
The fight commence? Is the king nothing, then?
Or hath the rebel, first, his impious sword
Presumed to draw.”

He asked; but answer none
Knew any man to make. Upon the plain
Drove he a space; then paused; and to the fight
Swift horsemen sent; who, of its course unknown,
Report might bring him. Toward the Median camp,
Upstanding in his car, meantime he looked;
But nought could see—so glaring bright the sky,
The plain so thick with mist. To Michael then,
Who o'er the Assyrian chariots ruled, he spake;
And to Nebaioth, captain of the horse.

“Michael, have ready twice a thousand cars;

For to the battle will I drive anon:
And, with thy two score thousand horsemen, thou,
Nebaioth follow: and, when we shall break
The rebel ranks, and scatter them abroad;
Then come ye in, and trample them to earth:
And let your swords be drunk with rebels' blood;
For mercy shall be none. From out the foot,
His ten score thousand men bid Joshua take:
And, when the chariots and the horsemen go,
Then let them follow; so shall none escape.
But, Salamenes, thou with all the rest,—
For onset ready when the word shall come,—
Behind remain; and witness what we do.”

So he; and many a look impatient cast
Upon the misty veil; and to the left,
Where raged the fight; tidings awaiting still.

Meantime, in conflict hot and terrible,
The Babylonian foot against the horse
Of Jerimoth contended. Like the blast
Of hurricane through the ripe field of corn,
Rending, wide scattering, breaking down,—came he
On that scared host—all unprepared, unranked,—
Slaying, and trampling. Maddest terror then
On many seized; and, casting down their arms,
In headlong flight they ran. Not so their chief,
Brave Azariah: he, already armed,
With thrice ten thousand bowmen, shaft on string,
Stood firm; and on the advancing horsemen drove
An arrow cloud, that like a hailstorm rang
Upon their armour. As they nearer drew,
Darts, spears assailed them: also slingers cast,
On either flank, great stones; which flesh of man,
Or steed, could pierce; that many horse, at length,
Turned back, and shunned the conflict: many paused,
Dismayed; and looked behind.

Yet, not the less,
Fierce as a tiger; laughing at the spear,
The arrow, or the stone, flew Jerimoth;
And with him thrice a myriad mail-clad steeds,
And riders all in mail. Repulsed in vain,
Again impetuous to the charge they rode;
Slaying, or falling; and, on either side,
Terrific was the struggle. But, right on,
Unchecked went Jerimoth; his foaming steed
All clad in brazen armour, dazzling bright,
With gold o'erlaid; himself, in flaming mail
Of gilded brass, and glittering steel, secure.
From horse and rider glanced the spear aside,
The arrow, and the stone. Hundreds, hurled down,
Like grass were trampled: falchions then were red;
And earth with carnage steamed. But, standing firm,
Bold Azariah drew his mighty bow;
And as, all fearless, Jerimoth came on,
Straight toward him speeding—to the glittering head
The arrow drew, and loosed. Right through the eye
The horse it struck; into the brain sank deep;
And smote him dead. As by a thunder-bolt
Stricken, he fell; and fell his rider too,
With arms loud ringing. Then went clamors up
From Azariah, and from all who saw;
And swiftly they pressed on: but, swifter far,
Flew on the Assyrians; and around their chief,
An iron bulwark, gathered. On the ground,
Stunned for a moment, lay he motionless;
And, at that instant, with exulting cries,
Dashed on the Arabian horse—steed against steed
Furiously urging. Dreadful then the din—
Helmet and corslet ringing to the stroke;
Horse 'gainst horse shocking. But, from off the ground
Rose Jerimoth; unhurt, though giddy still:
Another courser backed; and to the fight
Like a galled lion sprang.

Now harder waxed
The struggle; and to neither side, as yet,

Vantage appeared; till, in his lofty car,—
His priestly vestments streaming in the wind,—
Came on Belesis. “Men of Babylon,
On to the battle! God beholds you now!
Heaven fights for you! On! every man press on!
Fear not; for God is with us!”

Crying thus,
Along the Babylonian ranks he drove;
And fired them to the combat. By his voice,
And by his presence moved, with twofold rage,
Backward they bore the foe.

Undaunted yet,
Though pressed by whelming odds, fought Jerimoth;
And, with him, thousands of his choicest men,
Proud with their chief to die: but many a look
Behind he cast, expecting aid to come:
“Surely the sound of conflict must be heard;
And they will strengthen us.”

Within himself
Thus he; retiring slowly; fighting still;
And vainly hoping still.

Meantime, the king
Sat in his car; waiting return of those
Whom to the fight for tidings he had sent.
Impatiently he sat; still through the mist
Striving in vain to pierce. Louder, more loud,
The din of contest grew: thick tramplings, soon,
Of steeds in flight were heard, or in pursuit;
Shouts, as of triumph; yells, of those who fled.
“Why tarry they?” he cried, “and come not back
To tell me of the fight: why tarry they?”

Anon came horsemen, flying like the wind,
Who told how Jerimoth, out-numbered far,
Fled from the combat. At that word, the king,
Upstarting in his chariot, cried aloud:
“Traitor, or madman! Hath he then presumed
To lead the battle? Now let Adriel haste
With twice ten thousand horse to turn the fight;
Ahaz, with all his spearmen; and, of those
That draw the bow, let two score thousand speed

So, of that host accursëd, shall not one
This day escape me. Dara, hither—quick.
Ascend my chariot, and the coursers rule:
Myself will mix in conflict.”

At the word,
From his own car out-leaped the ardent youth;
Into the royal chariot, at a bound,
Lightly upsprang; and from the monarch's hand,
Bowing, took rein and scourge. In every strife
For swiftness, both on foot, and in the race
Of steeds, and chariots, far was spread his fame.
Yet in the fight he joyed not; for his soul
Was with Nehushta, daughter of the king.

But, in his lofty car upstanding now;
A spear, steel-headed, gleaming in his hand;
His arm the monarch raised; and, pointing, cried;
“On to the battle! Yonder lie their hosts
Most numerous; and, perchance, expect us not.
But the mist clears, and soon may we be seen.
Upon them like the thunder-bolt? Away!”

Started the chariots then; the impatient steeds
Bounded; and, to the leaping of the wheels,
And furious tramplings, the deep shaken earth
Answered in thunder.

But Arbaces still,
With all the Median chariots, and the horse,
And thrice a hundred thousand valiant foot,
The tidings of the fight expecting, stood:
And many a prayer to the bright god of day
Went up, that he the misty air would clear,
And show the battle-field. Horsemen, at length,
With falchions waving, crying as they flew,
Proclaimed that Jerimoth, defeated, fled—
The Arabian horse and cars pursuing him.
Then, with a summons like a trumpet-call,
Spake out Arbaces; “To the battle all!
Strike while they reel! On to the battle! on!
The arm of God is with us!”

At the word,
The fiery steeds uptore the groaning ground;

Thundered the wheels; and, like a torrent's rush,
Sounded the tread of that vast infantry.
Then spake the trumpets out—a thousand tongues
Of blaring brass; timbrels; the ringing clash
Of cymbals; every instrument clear-toned,
That stirs the heart in battle: and the shouts
Of tens of myriads were sent up to heaven,
In peals that rent the air. High in the midst,
The splendid ensign,—azure, silver-starred;
With sun of burning gold,—to the fresh breeze
Rolled out its glorious hues.

So moved they on,
Rejoicing: but not far; when, like a fire,
Behold the blazing chariot of the king!
And, after him, a throng of cars and horse,
Hasting to battle. At that sight, his voice
Arbaces lift, exulting, and exclaimed,
“Into our hands hath God delivered him!
Charge every chariot; every horseman charge:
For now his hour is come!”

So he; then stooped;
And to his charioteer, deliberate, thus:
“Darius, what I tell thee, heed thou well;
And fear not. Right against the tyrant's car,
Drive wheel in wheel. His axle we may break,
And hurl him headlong; so, with one sharp blow,
Decide the battle. Nearer—nearer still.
Now—let the flanks of the horses graze as they pass.”
Thus he; and, rising, his tremendous spear,
For the death-stroke lifted. With like dire intent,
His huge lance poising, toward him flew the king:
His mail of steel, and helmet, diamond-starred,
Flashing bright flame. But Dara heedfully,
The shock foreseeing, turned aside the steeds:
Darius also, fearful of the clash,
Drew artfully the rein,—small space between,
That the fierce wheels might pass.

They now were nigh.
In the same instant, both their lances hurled:
Both struck: with a loud ring, both weapons glanced:
But, on his shield, Arbaces, all unharmed,
The blow received; aslant upon his helm,
The monarch, and fell senseless.

At that sight,
Gloried the Mede: but, marking that the cars
Apart were passing, hastily snatched the reins;
And, in a moment, grinding horribly,
Wheel inside wheel was driven. Like brittle wood,
Black from the fire, the axle of the Mede
Snapped short: the car was dashed upon the ground.
Uninjured passed the chariot of the king;
But darkness veiled his eyes.

With violence thrown,
Upon his head Darius fell; and died.
But, on his feet alighting all unhurt,
Arbaces stood; and in a moment saw
The shattered car, amid th' Assyrian ranks,
Whirled by the terrified steeds. His battle-axe—
Thrown from the chariot—and his bow and spears,
Up caught he: then, like lion on his prey,
The king to o'ertake, flew on. But, after him,
With tempest-speed, th' Assyrian chariots came:
Lances and darts whizzed round him: close behind,
Like the hot pantings of the desert-blast,
Within his ear, and on his cheek, he felt
The blowing of the steeds. With voice, and rein,
And sounding thong, the charioteers impelled
The horses on, that they might trample him:
But, turning as he ran, the nearest steed
Upon the forehead with his battle-axe,—
Fatal as stroke of thunder-bolt,—he smote;
And, with loud squelch and jar, unto the ground,
Dead in that instant, drove him. O'er him rolled,
With hideous clash, his fellows: and the car
Flat to the earth was hurled. On flew the Mede:
For now, brief space before, the royal car
Slowly round wheeling saw he,—the hot steeds

Rebellious 'gainst control. Forward he flew;
Close to the chariot reached; and his axe raised,
Aiming the death-blow: but, at highest stretch,
About to fall, while it a moment hung,—
A fierce Assyrian horseman, speeding by,
Upon the shoulder smote him, that his arm,
Benumbed, sank useless: and a brazen dart
In that same instant on his helmet struck,
Jarring his brain, that all the sky seemed fire;
And, staggering, he looked round. On every side
Death stared him in the face. But lo! at hand,
A Median chariot. Him the driver knew,
And curbed the steeds; upsprang he; from his eyes
Passed off the mist; and all his strength returned.

But now in horrid shock the chariots joined:
Dreadful the crash of wheels fast locked; the plunge
Of frantic steeds; the ringing of the shields,
Corslets, and helmets: dreadful, too, the clash
Of mail-elad horse, ten thousand seven times told,
Hurtling in battle.

Sense recovering soon,
Sardanapalus, with uplifted voice,
Cheered on his soldiers. Foremost in the fight,
Himself still fought: now, hurled the heavy spear;
Now, from his bow the hissing arrow loosed:
Leaped from his chariot, now; and, sword to sword,
Strove with the foe: nor met the single arm,
That might with his compare.

In equal scale
So hung the fight; till now, the Median foot
Advancing, on the enemy's ranks poured down
Clouds of steel-headed arrows; heavy stones
Sent from the sling; lances, and brazen darts,
Winged with swift death.

Then on the Assyrians came
Confusion and dismay: and, as they turned,
Shunning the iron tempest,—with loud cries
The foe pursued; and terrified the steeds,
That they fled masterless. Nor, when, at length,
With twice a hundred thousand valiant foot,

Came Joshua to their aid, could they make stand;
So fear unnerved them. Vainly did the king
Call on them to be men: into the midst
Of battle vainly drove he, daring death:
In vain did Michael and Nebaioth urge
The chariots and the horse to stem the flood:
Terror had seized them; and their strength was gone.
Backward the cars ran round,—wheel grinding wheel:
Horse against horse was driven, and man 'gainst man;
Confusion dire! At length cried out the king;
“Haste, Michael,—force a pass through yonder rout.
To Salamenes fly. With horse, cars, foot,
Hither command him. For thy life make speed!”

That hearing, Michael with loud voice cried out
To clear the way: then in his own hands took
The reins and scourge; and, louder shouting still,
Through the close press 'gan force; but many o'erthrew,
Borne by the horses down, and by the wheels.
Yet still impatiently called out the king,
Faster to urge him; for his heart 'gan fail.
Far as the mist, dispersing, gave him scope,
Throughout the flying host his eye he cast;
And everywhere saw terror and despair.

But nearer than he thought, was help even then:
For Salamenes, uncommanded, sent
Fresh forces to the fight.

Three anxious hours,
Listening the twofold conflict had he stood.
But, toward the left, where Adriel with the horse,
And, with the spearmen, Ahaz, to the aid
Of Jerimoth had gone,—was heard, at first,
The sound of battle loudest. Thinner grew
The mist; and dimly might he now descry
The far-off combat; horsemen urging on;
Chariots careering; helmets, plumes, and shields,
Together dashing; rolling here and there
In multitudes, like billows of the deep,
Foam-crested.

But, anon, whence fought the king,
Came sounds more terrible; the roar of fear,

And utter rout it seemed: yet, farther off,
Wrapped in the mist, all was uncertain still;
And, if the king were victor, who might tell;
Or if the rebel? But, ere long, more near,
Horsemen, as if in flight, were faintly seen:
“Perchance,” thought he, “they hasten from the king.
But no; they turn again; his arm prevails;
The traitors fall before him! . . . Yet again
Come they; in number more, and swifter flight. . . . .
And chariots now; but, if Assyrian they,
Or Median, through this dim air who may tell? . . . .
Again they turn, and seek the fight anew.
Why sends he not? Surrounded, perhaps, in vain
He calls for succour. Shall I longer wait;
Or, uncommanded, haste to strengthen him?
Yet that hath he forbidden. But, perchance,
He hath already fallen; or may fall,
Unaided now; and curse me in his heart. . . . .
The rout increases,—chariots, horse, and foot,—
Confusion horrible! Come whatever may,
I pause no longer.”

Inly thus communed
The noble Salamenes; then, at once,
Called horsemen, and cried out; “To Zadok fly:
With all his cavalry, into the fight
Bid him advance: thou, Abdiel, to him speed,
And Gareb. To Jahaziel, hasten thou,
Zulmanna; and thou, too, Shemiramoth.
Bid him his five score thousand foot lead on.
No moment must he pause. An instant lost,
All may be lost.” So he, and was obeyed.
Then to Jehoshaphat, who, with his cars
Of iron, thrice three hundred, for the fight
Keenly impatient stood, himself made speed;
Still crying as he went: “On, like the wind!
Stay not, nor slacken, though your axle-trees
Be hot as in the fire!”

His voice was heard;
And with thick tramplings instantly the ground
Resounded, and the beating of the wheels.

Not far the chariots and the horse had gone,
When, in full flight, the Assyrian cavalry
On-thundering came; and cars, with dust and blood,
Besmeared and foul. His bright sword waving then,
Aloud called Zadok, bidding them return:
Jehoshaphat stood also in his car,
Clamoring, and whirling high his glittering spear.

That aid unlooked for seeing, with new hope,
Back to the field the routed turned again;
Chariots and horse into the thickest fight
Plunging amain.

Them, as he hasted on,
Met Michael; and, his errand useless now
Misdeeming, to the conflict turned anew,
Exultingly; and 'gainst the Median ranks,
His chariot drove impetuous.

For awhile,
Back rolled the Medes; and, like a broken sea,
Wave against wave uplifted, toiled the hosts,
In doubtful contest. But again came on,
Like to a turning tide, the living deep:
Again, resistless, bearing down the foe,
Poured on the Medes; th' Assyrians fled again:
Till yet again, like to a counter flood,
Jahaziel came; then was the great tide stayed;
Dreadful became the roaring of the waves;
And dire the struggling.

For awhile so raged,
With strength and fury equal, both the hosts:
Sword against sword they stood, and foot 'gainst foot;
Chariot with chariot striving; horse with horse;
And neither could prevail. Thus, till the sun
In the blue concave at his summit stood,
And poured down fire upon the steaming plain,
In balanced fight they toiled: and, where the hosts
Of Jerimoth, and Ahaz, 'gainst the men
Of Babylon, and all th' Arabian horse,
And chariots, fought—was also equal strife.

Yet Salamenes still unmoving stood;
Unto the king obedient: and by turns

To either conflict looked; though inly vexed,
And panting for the fight.

Within the car
Of Phrygian Abner rode Arbaces now:
From rank to rank he flew; and every heart
With martial ardor filled, and thirst of fame.
Before him no man stood: but, chief, the king
Sought he; intent in him the strife to end;
So saving blood of myriads; vainly else
To be poured out. But, in the glittering host
Of chariots, like the sun amid the throng
Of gorgeous clouds at eve, or ruddy morn,—
The dazzling war-car of Assyria's lord,
Well seen, yet inaccessible, drove on.

At length, once more, 'mid the dread hurricane,
Assyria's monarch and the Median chief,
By chance of battle met. For, in the ear,
An arrow pierced a courser of the king;
There stuck, and into madness fretted him,
That curb, or voice, he heeded not. From his,
Like fury took the rest: of all restraint
Disdainful; fire emitting from their eyes;
Right through the press they flew; men, steeds, and cars,
Crushing, or casting down.

That saw the Mede,
Rejoicing; and to Abner cried aloud;
“See! see! my friend: the gods will aid us now!
The tyrant's steeds with frenzy have they struck,
That he may fall before us. After him!
Quick—lash the horses on.”

With rein and voice,
Vainly, meantime, strove Dara to control
The raging steeds. Unmastered utterly,
O'er dead, and living, recklessly they ran.
Leaping, and rocking, onward went the car;
And, from close press of fight, to the open plain,
Tempest-winged flew. From Dara's hand the king
Snatched then the reins, his stronger arm to try:

But voice, or rein, or scourge, nought heeded they;
And still went headlong on.

His spear laid by,
Arbaces now his bow caught up; a shaft
Fixed on the string, and aimed. Him saw the king;
To Dara's hand quickly the reins returned;
And to his seat sprang back; with equal arms
That he his foe might meet. But, suddenly,
As by their driver urged to instant flight,
Aside the wild steeds swerved; and from the Mede
The indignant monarch bore. Then cried aloud
Arbaces, taunting; and his charioteer,
Exulting, smote the horses in pursuit.
Thrice did the terrible arrows of the Mede
Upon the impassable armour of his foe,
Strike, like the glance of lightning. Standing up,
With back now toward the steeds, the wrathful king
His bow bent also; and, to every shaft,
Hissing reply returned; still calling loud
To Dara, bidding him the coursers curb.
But his lashed Abner onward furiously,
Shaking the reins.

Soon, shorter space between,
Each laid aside the bow; a glittering spear,
Uplifting, shook; and, the death-stroke to give,
Eagerly thirsted.

First out flew the lance
Of the wrath-burning king; yet erring flew;
For, backward in the chariot as he rode,
Less true his aim, standing unsteadily:
But then Arbaces cast. The monstrous beam
Right toward the bosom of the monarch held,
Sullenly whirring. He the coming death
Saw—and stooped quickly. O'er his crest it passed;
Bending the plume. Then stood he up again;
And, with more cautious aim, a second lance
Hurled at the Mede; with all his strength he hurled.
Loud sang the eager shaft; but yet again
Erred from the mark. Well for Arbaces so!

For, with such fury flew it, that, the car
Striking in front,—right through its coat of brass,
And through the oaken plank, and inner plate,
Crashing, it burst; and, in the gaping rent,
Angrily gnarring, jarring, rocked to rest.

Down looked the astonished Mede; and at his feet
The whole bright point beheld. Then, rising, aimed,
And drove the whirring spear; not harmless now.
True to its aim the monarch saw it still;
And leaped aside; so 'scaped. But, on the head,
Striking the wounded courser of the king,
Deep in the brain the stormy weapon sank;
And smote him dead. Down dropped he instantly;
And over him the hindmost horses fell,
And rolled upon the ground. Out sprang the king,
Dagger in hand, the traces to divide;
And with him Dara. Toiling as they stood,
The chariot from the cumbering corse to free,—
Toward them, with sword on high, Arbaces ran;
And, running, cried aloud, “Turn, tyrant, turn!
Leave thy dead steed; and of thyself have care;
Or surely shalt thou perish!”

At those words,
Started the king; and, his broad shield of gold
From out the car upsnatching, toward the foe
Walked furiously. That seen, Arbaces paused;
For, in his haste forgotten, his own shield
Within the chariot hung; and, if to turn,
And take it thence, he pondered,—or to go,
With odds against him, to the mortal strife.
A moment, but no more, in doubt he stood:
In his good cause then trusting, and that strength
Which ne'er, in battle, or in sport of arms,
Equal had met,—his flaming sword he drew,
And strode on rapidly. To him, now nigh,
Wrathfully thus the king.

“What wretch art thou,
Who, twice this day, hast dared to meet thy lord
In battle insolent? Presumptuous worm!
Learn now that monarchs have the arm of God

To punish traitors. Bend thy giant knee;
And swear allegiance: to my chariot yoke
Thy swiftest courser: back then to the fight:
In rebels' blood thine own rebellion purge;
And I will pardon thee: wealth, honors, give:
Yea, set thee high, that men shall bow to thee,
And call thee lord; for brave art thou, indeed;
And mighty in the battle.”

Scornfully
Spake then the Mede. “To other king than Him
Whose throne is heaven, this knee shall never bow:
But, least of all, thou sceptred goat, to thee,
Drunken and lewd! To slay me, or be slain,
Prepare; and talk not; for, before thee stands
Thy brother-king, Arbaces.”

Speaking yet,
Sudden as lightning in a cloudless sky,
The gleaming falchion of his enemy
He saw descending. Lightly he leaped back;
And struck not yet again; for, fierce as fire,
Out flamed the king; blow driving upon blow,
Impetuously; the eye with glare of steel
Dazzling; and deafening with loud threats the ear.
Retiring now; now, warding off the stroke;
To this side springing now; and, now, to that;
With arms unequal thus the Mede awhile
Defensive fought; still watching till the shield
Some spot should leave unguarded. But not long
Cool measure kept; for, on his corslet twice,
Loud knocking,—the fierce weapon of his foe
Entrance demanded; and the iron gate,
That ne'er before to arm of man had ope'd,
At the third summons burst. No longer then
The Mede his fury curbed: with giant strength,
Swift as the lightning lifting up his sword,
Down through the crackling shield he drove it; down
Through plume and adamantine helmet drove;
Through the thick-folded silken lining shore;
And grazed, at last, the bone.

Amazed, and stunned,

Uttering no sound, a moment stood the king:
From his relaxing hand down dropped the shield;
The sword dropped down; with wide and vacant eye,
And mouth agape, a moment he stood fixed;
Then, helpless, unresisting as a corse,
With heavy jar fell back.

Sprang Dara then,
Swift as a leopard; the fallen sword caught up;
And, to defend the body of the king,
The Mede confronted.

'Gainst the eagle's swoop,
As well might stand the dove! But, from his prey,
Sharp summons called the victor. At full speed;
With stretched arm pointing; shouting as he flew,
Came Abner; “Up into the car,” he cried,
“Torrents of horse are on us! Up—leap up!”

Arbaces looked. Like a great running fire,—
So flashed their arms and armour to the sun,—
Came on the serried squadrons; 'neath their feet,
The firm earth shaking.

Balked of his great hope,
Into the chariot sprang the indignant Mede;
And instantly, like arrows from the bow,
Bounded the horses onward. Toward the host
Of Media flew they; and, in close pursuit,
The Assyrian cavalry. But, swift the steeds
Of Abner; and unharmed their riders bore.

Nigh to his legions now, his mighty voice
Arbaces lifted, and cried out, “Haste!—haste!
Turn every horse and chariot; this way turn.
The tyrant is struck down; perchance is slain:
Upon them every man!”

Far off that voice
Was heard; and, instantly, arched necks were seen
Of coursers turning; chariots wheeling round;
And spears innumerable, toward their chief,
Hasting for quick assault. But, them to oppose,
From the Assyrian host as many sped.
Dreadful grew then the struggle; and the din
Went up to heaven.

Meantime, around the king,
Dense was the thronging; and the terror great;
For all men deemed him slain. But, when the helm
Was taken from his head; and on his breast
The corslet slackened—soon to life again
He came; and, in amazement, looked about.
The battle recollecting, from the earth
To rise then strove he; with a feeble voice
Exhorting to the onset. But, not thus,
From that tremendous stroke unharmed to escape
Might mortal hope: slight seemed the wound; the blood
In but scant trickle fell; yet, such the shock,
That from his eyes seemed fire to drop: his breast
Laboriously heaved; his strength was gone.
For combat all unfit he felt himself;
Bade them bind up the wound; his helm replace;
And homeward bear him. For his maimed steeds then,
Four ebon horses, strong and swift, they yoked;
And placed him in the chariot. By his side
Sat an Iberian captain; and upheld
Upon his breast the monarch's drooping head.

But, loud as thunder now went up the cries
From all the Median host; “The king is slain!
The tyrant is destroyed!—the earth is free!”

Then were the Assyrians troubled in their hearts;
Their strength 'gan fail them; and, when they beheld
The royal chariot, and the fainting king,
Flying from battle, longer strove they not;
But, turned upon the foe their backs, and fled:
Horse, chariots, foot, in hideous tumult mixed,
On fled they; and the earth was heaped with slain.

That rout beholding, Salamenes now,
Unbidden, to the rescue hastened on:
With chariots and with horsemen first went he;
And, after them, the foot, impatient all
To mingle in the fight. Him met the king;
Pallid, and bleeding still; yet, by the air
Refreshed, and by the chariot's rapid whirl.
Upright he sat, though weak; and, tremblingly,
To Salamenes thus: “Why linger'st thou?

Fly, fly, and turn the fight. Nay—tarry not;
No time for words; I shall return anon:
So tell the soldiers. Quick! my signet take.
The rule of all the host is in thy hands.
Away—and conquer!”

Bending, as he spake,
Within his brother's hand the ring he placed;
And motioned on. At once the rapid cars
Divided: toward the city flew the king;
But Salamenes, with misgiving heart,
To battle hasted.

Looking on the field,
Within a watch-tower sat the pensive queen;
And, by her side, Nehushta; in her hand,
Her mother's cold hand grasping. Silently,
Upon the distant contest long they gazed,
With tremulous lip, pale cheek, and anxious eye,
That troubled minds bespake: and often thus,
Within her soul, the melancholy queen
Darkly discoursed.

“What bodes this lengthened strife?
Said not the flatterers of Assyria's might
That, like the grass beneath the giant's foot,
Our foes would be trod down?—Yet still they stand
Undaunted, though the roused-up king himself
Against them in his terrors hath gone forth.
Not thus to meet them looked he,—sword 'gainst sword
Lift insolently: 'neath a monarch's frown,
No rebel, said they, could a moment live;
But, like a tree struck by heaven's thunderbolt,
At the dread glance must fall. Believed he that?
Ah! ever hath he in the flatterer's breath
Found music! Hapless! sensual! fallen! and lost!

Who, in thy unstained youth, didst seem a thing
For common men to worship as a God!
What thoughts are in thy fiery bosom now?
How feelest thou,—thy name and power defied;
Thy throne,—whereon, for thrice five hundred years,
In splendor undisturbed, and awful power,
Thy fathers ruled—now, as the prize set up,
For which with rebels thou must stoop to strive?
And, when the insolent soldier his base sword,
Against thy crownëd and anointed head;
Whereto earth's mightiest would have bent the knee,
And deemed it honor,—bravingly doth lift;
What saith thy proud heart then, Assyria's king?
A stern school hast thou now to learn, how false
The praise of sycophants: yet, with strong soul,
From thy foul, sensual bed hast thou arisen,
And girt thee to the task: that praise be thine;
For little can I give. Oh! turn not back
Into the miry slough: then may the past,
Like a foul corse, be buried from my sight;
And a new, glorious future . . . . . How I dream!
Even now, perchance, the weapon of a slave
Hath left to him no future! Dreadful sight!
How many myriads must this night lie stiff
Upon their gory beds, who with the sun
Rose joyously! how many wives will wail!
How many children will be fatherless!
Kind Heaven! oh! comfort them!”

Thus thinking, long
O'er all the field she watched the battle-storm.
But on one spot of restless light, at length,
Which, from the conflict coming, seemed, she thought,
A chariot—was her gaze intently fixed;
And, seeing it, she thought upon the king.

With strained eye looking, that same fiery spot
Nehushta saw; and in her fearful heart
Sad thoughts arose. “Oh! is my father there?
His chariot surely 'tis that burns so bright!
Why comes it from the battle? And thou, too,

Dara; oh, where art thou? Ye Powers of Good!
Protect them; and this hideous conflict end!”

So they: but, nearer as the chariot drew;
Within their hearts both said, “It is not he:
His steeds are white as snow; these, black as night:
It cannot be the king.” Yet, nigher still
As it came on, doubt darkened into fear;
And, with unsteady voice, thus spake the queen.
“See'st thou yon car which from the battle comes,
Driving so rapidly? the steeds are black;
Or, by the splendor that around it burns,
Thy father's it might seem.”

Nehushta then;
“Oh! not my father's! Yet, if his it be,
Nought ill may it betoken. Of a truth,
Like his the flash; but other cars are bright;
And, in this blazing sun, might splendor fling,
Dazzling as that. Three forms methinks I see . . . .
Perhaps some wounded friend he brings from fight.
Or . . . Heaven have mercy!”

Trembling, she stopped short:
And, for awhile, breathless, with beating hearts,
Faces death-white, fixed eyes, and quivering lips,
They gazed in silence.

But the queen, at length,
Started, stood up, and cried, “It is the king;
Sore hurt, I fear! Hence let us instantly.”

Down from the watch-tower hurriedly they went,
And sprang into their car. The charioteer
Flung up the reins: like wind the horses flew:
They reached the palace.

Through the gate of Bel
Glanced, like a meteor dimmed, the monarch's car;
Blood-sprinkled, fouled with dust; the ebon steeds
With creamy foam bespattered; their full eyes
Flashing; and their loud-blowing nostrils spread.
They who beheld it, as it thundered on
Through street and square, lifted the hand, and groaned,
Fearing the king was slain. Arrived, at length,—

To his night-chamber, pallid, gore-bestained,
And with bewildered aspect, was he borne.
To meet him there, Nehushta, and the queen,
With anxious faces, stood; and question put,
With tremulous voice, kind 'tendance offering.
But coldly did he greet them: on a couch
His languid limbs outstretched; for wine called out;
And signed to them to go. Yet, tenderly,
His helm the queen removed; with her own robe
Wiped from his brow the blood: and softly thus:
“Take not, I pray thee, of the wine-cup now;
For thou art wounded; and 'twould fever thee.”
Nehushta too implored; her father's hand
Tenderly kissing; her bright loving eyes
Swimming in tears.

On her the king looked not;
But, to Atossa, with a peevish tone,
And frowning, thus replied. “Thy kindness now
Unwelcome is; unsought: thy proper place,
O'erproud, thou dost disdain: but stoop not then
To the poor nurse's office. When I sued,
Haughty thou wert; and colder than the snow;
Reproachful, and contemptuous: be so still;
And leave me; for thy look offends me now.”

To him the queen replied not; but, with grace
Majestical arising, on the arm
Her daughter pressed, and whispered, “Stay thou here,
And keep from him the grape-juice: haply thou
Better may'st move him.”

Still incensed, the king
Cried out, “At once away! why linger ye?
I would be left.”

That hearing, they withdrew:
Nehushta, with bowed head; sobbing aloud;
But, with calm brow, the queen, and bearing high;
Yet full of womanly grace.

From off his couch
Half rose the king, relenting as he gazed
On that majestic beauty, passing forth;

And softly called, “Atossa.” She heard not:
And he, self-scorned, sank back. “Thou woman's fool!
When wilt thou wisdom learn? Is this an hour
For dalliance, when thy very throne and life
Hang on the battle's chance? Why am I here?
Why came I from the field? My strength returns:
I will go forth again; and from my head
Pluck off this bloody witness that the king
Is, like the slave, but mortal.”

While he spake,
Uprising, he the bandage tore away;
Placed on his brow the helm; and cried, “My car!
I will go forth again.” But, reeling, sick;
Blood from the opened gash fast trickling down;
Giddy, and faint, upon the couch he sank;
Cursing his helplessness. “Bring wine!” he cried;
“Bind up the hurt again; for even thus
Will I unto the field.”

While yet he spake,
Came Peresh, the physician; in his hand
Herbs bearing, and fine linen for the wound.
The bleeding king beholding; on his head
The helm; and that strange wildness in his look;
By madness struck, he deemed him; and replied:
“Thy wound, O king of kings! will I bind up,
The juice of healing herbs infusing first,
The blood to stanch, and bid the flesh unite;
But, drink not of the wine-cup, I implore;
For, now, 'twere poison to thee.”

“Peace, old man!”
Exclaimed the king. “Thy foolish counsel keep
For fools that heed it. To the fight must I:
Bind then my wound: but, my lost force to gain,
The goblet give me; for sure strength is there;
Prate as thou may.”

He ceased; stretched out his hand,
And took the cup: but, as by frenzy struck,
Stared—shuddered—gasped—and dashed it on the floor.

“Hence with that loathsome thing!” wildly he cried,
“Break it to pieces! cast it in the fire!
His blood is on it! Peresh, thou sayst true;
Poison is in the grape-juice; madness, guilt;
I will not drink. Quick—do thine office now.
Bind up the hurt; and some of you bid forth
My chariot: I will haste unto the fight.”

Yet speaking, he stopped short; sank on the couch,
Dizzy, and faint; and in a long swoon lay.

But, when to sense he came,—with healing herbs
His wound they dressed, and with fine linen bound:
The heavy armour from his limbs then took;
With cooling drinks, and drugs of slumbrous power,
His anguish soothed; and left him to repose.

“And David took the shields of gold that were on the servants of Hadarezer, and brought them to Jerusalem.”

—1 Chron. xviii. 7.

“And King Solomon made two hundred targets of beaten gold: six hundred shekels of gold went to one target. “And he made three hundred shields of beaten gold; three pounds of gold went to one shield.”

—1 Kings, x. 16, 17.

Should any one object to the immensity of the armies, or the multitude of the chariots, here brought together, he may be referred to the historians, who have gone still beyond it: should he dislike the formal enumeration of forces so frequently given, he may be reminded that the sacred writers have set the example so perpetually as to render this mode of description almost requisite in a work founded, in part, upon Bible history.

“And the children of Israel cried unto the Lord: for he had nine hundred chariots of iron; and twenty years he mightily oppressed the children of Israel.”

—Judges, iv. 3.

“And Abijah set the battle in array with an army of valiant men of war, even four hundred thousand chosen men: Jeroboam also set the battle in array against him with eight hundred thousand chosen men, being mighty men of valour.”

—2 Chronicles, xiii. 3.

“But Jeroboam caused an ambushment to come about behind them: so they were before Judah, and the ambushment was behind them.”

—Ibid. 13.

“And Abijah and his people slew them with a great slaughter: so there fell down slain of Israel five hundred thousand chosen men.”

—Ibid. 17.

“And Asa had an army of men that bare targets and spears, out of Judah three hundred thousand; and out of Benjamin, that bare shields and drew bows, two hundred and fourscore thousand: all these were mighty men of valour. And there came out against them Zerah the Ethiopian with a host of a thousand thousand, and three hundred chariots.”

—2 Chronicles, xiv. 8, 9.

“And when the children of Ammon saw that they had made themselves odious to David, Hanun and the children of Ammon sent a thousand talents of silver to hire them chariots and horsemen out of Mesopotamia, and out of Syria-maachah, and out of Zobah. So they hired thirty and two thousand chariots,” &c.

—1 Chronicles, xix. 6.

“And Joab gave the sum of the number of the people unto David. And all they of Israel were a thousand thousand and a hundred thousand men that drew sword: and Judah was four hundred three-score and ten thousand men that drew sword. But Levi and Benjamin counted he not among them.”

—1 Chronicles, xxi. 5, 6.

If so numerous were the armies of single nations, who may venture to limit the number of the banded hosts of all the East?

“The ensigns, or military standards of the star-worshipping nations, were believed to have consisted of astral signs.” —Landseer's Sabæan Researches, p. 311.

And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, See, I have set thee over all the land of Egypt.

“And Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it upon Joseph's hand. “And he made him ruler over all the land of Egypt.”

—Genesis, xli.

The curious reader may find, upon the subject of ancient signets, ample information in Landseer's Sabæan Researches.

BOOK THE SIXTH.

Meantime, within the royal maiden's bower—
Hurriedly met, in fear and trembling hope,—
Sat Dara and Nehushta. That sweet spot
Herself had chosen; from the palace walls
Farthest removed; by not a sound disturbed,
And by no eye o'erlooked,—a mossy lawn
Mid lofty trees, umbrageous, folded in;
Yet to the sunshine open, and the airs
That from the deep shades all around it breathed,
Cool, and sweet scented. Myrtle, jessamine,
Roses of richest hue; all climbing shrubs,
Green-leaved and fragrant, had she planted there;
At early morn had watered, and at eve,
From a bright fountain near, that, day and night,
Throughout all seasons, a sweet music made;
And, dancing, flashing in the sun, might seem
All liquid, living diamond. Over head,
The pliant branches, intertwined, were arched:
Flowers, some; and, some, rich fruits of gorgeous hues,
Bearing abundantly; the taste to please,
Or, with rich scent, the smell; or that fine sense
Of beauty, that in forms and colours rare
Doth take delight. With fragrant moss the floor
Was planted; to the foot a carpet rich;
Or, for the languid limbs, a downy couch,
Inviting slumber. At the noon-tide hour,
Here, with some chosen maidens, would she come,
Stories of love to listen; or the deeds

Of heroes of old days: the harp, sometimes,
Herself would touch; and, with her own sweet voice,
Fill all the air with sweetness.

Oft at eve,
When to his heavenly bed the wearied sun
Had parted; and sky's glorious arch yet shone,
A last gleam catching from his closing eye,—
The palace, with her maidens, would she quit;
Through vistas dim of tall trees glide along;
Cedar, or waving pine, or giant palm;
Through orange groves, and citron; myrtle walks;
Alleys of roses; beds of sweetest flowers,—
Their odorous breathings, on the panting air,
Pouring profusely all;—and, having reached
The spot beloved,—with sport, or dance awhile
On the small lawn, to sound of dulcimer,
The pleasant time would pass: or to the lute
Give ear delighted; and the plaintive voice
That sang of hapless love: then, arm in arm,
In couples would they saunter; hearing oft
The fountain's murmur; or the evening's sigh;
Or whisperings in the leaves; or, in his pride
Of minstrelsy, the sleepless nightingale,
Charming the air with beauty of sweet sounds:
And, ever as the silence came again,
The distant and unceasing hum would list
Of that great city—as of far-off sea,
Moaning in sleep.

But oft with one alone,
One faithful, loved companion, would she come:
At early morn sometimes, while every flower,
Dew-laden, like a regal crown shone bright:
When, through the glistening trees, the golden beams
Aslant their bright flood poured; and every bird
In his green palace sitting, sang aloud;
And all the air with youthful fragrance teemed,
Fresh as at Nature's birth,—her pastime then,
The flowers to tend; to look on earth and sky;
To drink the perfume of the healthful breeze,
And in the gladness of all things be glad.

But, sometimes, quite alone, as now, she met
The raptured lover: Dara then the harp,
Or dulcimer, would touch; or, happier yet,
His words of love into her listening ear
Distil, with sweeter music than from string,
Or breathing pipe, though sweetest.

But the tale,
Now, was of battle; ghastly wounds, and death:
Of her loved father, and the rebel chief,
Mighty as Nimrod: how in fight they stood;
And how the foe prevailed: how he himself,
For her loved sake, the terrible warrior faced,
Her sire defending: how the clouds of horse
Came on; and from his spoil the conqueror drove:
How, last, in tumult dread they left the field;
The Assyrians flying, and the Medes in chase.
Of what might yet, unhappily, befall,
Long talk they held: and many an earnest word
Of caution gave she; in the after strife,—
Well for her father so!—forgotten not.

Meantime, with all his cars and cavalry,
To turn the battle Salamenes flew.
Direful the rout that toward them rolling came;
Horses without their riders; cars o'erthrown,
Dragged by the terrified steeds; vast hosts in flight,—
Their fear-struck faces turning as they ran,—
And horsemen recklessly amid the throng
Forcing their headlong flight, and trampling down.

That seeing, Salamenes called aloud,
And bade blow out the trumpets; the weak hearts
To strengthen, and the valiant to sustain:
Then, to a captain of the Assyrian horse
Thus spake. “Haste to Abijah. Bid him take
One half his horsemen.” To another, thus:
“Thou, to Abiathar hasten. Bid him take
One half his chariots. Northward both must speed;
And o'er the plain a distant circuit make,

Till on the right of that rebellious host
They shall arrive: then, like a thunder-cloud,
Let fall upon them. With the other half—
Horsemen and chariots—Asshur with the horse,
And, with the chariots, Zimri—south must speed;
In like way, o'er the plain wide circuit take;
And smite them on the left. Full in the midst
Drive every chariot; every horseman break
The rebel ranks, and trample them like mire!
To the foot, meantime, myself will hasten back;
With them to stay the flight.”

That said, his steed
Sharply he turned, and flew along the plain:
With him a cloud of horse; but all the rest,
And all the cars—as he had given command,—
Half to the left hand, to the right hand half,
Moved instantly; and loud arose the sound
Of tramplings; and the beat of rapid wheels.

Meantime, in formless mass the routed fled;
Fear in all hearts: and everywhere went up
Shrill cries, “The king is slain! the day is lost!
Fly to the city, and shut fast the gates!”

But them, with twice a hundred thousand foot,
All hot for vengeance, Salamenes met,
And bade turn back to combat; crying aloud,
“Shame on you, cowards! whither would you fly?
Back on the foe! the king of kings yet lives;
And yet will come to conquer. Turn again!
Strike every man of you one valiant blow,
And victory is ours.”

They heard him not,
Or did not heed; so terror sank their hearts;
But wildly still pressed on—amid his ranks
Mingling confusedly; that uproar dread
Rose quickly; order to disorder changed.
From place to place flew Salamenes then,
Exhorting, and commanding: threatening now,
Now suing, now encouraging. Vain all!
Still rolled the torrent on; and nought could stay
The fury of its course. Then, waving high

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His glittering sword, he lifted up his voice,
And bade his soldiers cry, “Long live the king!
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!” At the word,
Up went the roar of myriads: bolder grew
The hearts of those who fled; and, crying aloud,
Again they faced the enemy.

Yet, not long,
With this new courage, did the Assyrians stand;
Then turned again to flight; for, in their cause,
Their foes were stronger. They, for liberty,
Dared all things: but th' Assyrians, for a throne,
And for a tyrant, fighting—with weak heart
Stood in the battle; and from death shrank back.

Yet now, a little while, the scales of war
Again were balanced: for Abiathar,
With half the chariots; and, with half the horse,
Abijah,—suddenly, upon the right;
Zimri, and Asshur, like a counter blast,
Upon the left, of the exulting Medes,
In the same moment driving,—like two floods
Breaking their barriers, all before them bore;
Hurling to earth, and trampling. Yells, and groans,
Clamors of triumph, and derision rose:
The curse, the scornful laugh, the shriek of pain.

Deep in the Median host th' Assyrians drove,
And shouted “Victory!” But, anon, the darts
Howled round their heads; huge stones upon them smote;
Arrows, steel-headed, like a hail-cloud came;
With darkness, and a rushing as of wind.
Death-shrieks and groans went up. Men fell, and steeds;
And chariots in the throng stood motionless;
Horses and charioteers, upon the earth
Stretched lifeless. Many a hand, uplifted high,
For the death-cast—fell death-struck; many a bow—
Even while the strong arm strained the arrow up—
Dropped from a corse; and, in their swift career,
Steeds staggered, and fell dead. So raged the strife;
And neither side prevailed.

That hideous din
Hearing at length, Arbaces looked behind,

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And all the tumult saw. To Abner then:
“Turn round the car. They break upon our flanks,
With horse and chariots: lash the coursers on,
For peril threatens.”

Arching their strong necks,
Turned the swift steeds; the brazen wheels spun on:
And, waving high his sword, his powerful voice
The Mede uplifted; and the chariots called,
And horsemen, from pursuit.

The call was heard:
A thousand voices spread it; and, at once,
Like fires stirred up, wheeled round the flashing cars.
In full career stopped short,—with quick recoil,
Came back the steel-clothed cavalry; the ground
Shaking beneath their hoofs. Before them all,
With spear uplifted, pointing onward still,
Swiftly Arbaces rode; and, as he went,
On every side a warning voice sent forth,
To clear the dangerous way.

They now were nigh:
With headlong rush, right on the enemy,
Chariot 'gainst chariot, horse 'gainst horse, they drove.
Then to high heaven, rending the air, went up
Clamors terrific, curses, shrieks, and cries:
Mailed coursers, brazen cars, together clashed;
Arrows and lances hissed; falchions, and helms,
Corslets, and shields, their iron chorus sang.

Ten thousand deeds heroic now were done,
Whereof no record tells; yet endless fame
Not less deserving than the vaunted acts
Of kings and conquerors, in song renowned,
Or lying history; that praises still
Worst deeds of men; for bloody victories
Misnamed The Great; their gentler acts untold,
Or blamed for weakness. But eternal fame
Each hoped for now; and to the battle leaped;
Greedy of death, with honor.

Bravely still,—
In the dread whirl of fight together brought,—
Abijah, and Abiathar, with voice,
And deed heroic, animating all,

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Struggled for victory. Side by side they fought;
Each aiding each, and all encouraging;
That round them furious was the strife; and sound
Of conflict terrible.

That din, at length,
Arbaces heard; and, standing up, beheld
Whence came the mischief: then to Abner thus:
“Curb hard the steeds; and let the car stand still;
That with a surer aim the death may fly
To yonder chiefs; themselves death scattering round.”
Yet speaking, from his quiver he drew forth
A polished shaft; three cubits in its length;
Straight as a sunbeam: from an eagle's wing,
The sombre plume; the gleaming head was steel,
Death-destined: this took he; and, standing firm,
With his left foot advanced,—his monstrous bow
Bent till the barb just touch upon the arch,
Then let the Fury go. Loud clanged the cord;
Shrilly the arrow hissed, eager to slay.

Abijah, in that moment perilous,
O'er the right shoulder of his horse low bent,—
With both hands griping hard its slippery shaft,—
From the close bite of a cleft shield of brass,
Strove to drag forth his spear. The foe, on foot,
Firm on his left arm held the baffling shield;
And, with his sword still aiming at the face,
Sprang on to pierce him: yet the horseman's lance
Still thrust him back,—still forward drew again;
And doubtful was the strife. But, as he bent,
The jointed armour in Abijah's neck
Opened; and death went in. With eye of fire,
All life and strength, while on his restless horse
Thus fiercely battling—headlong down he fell:
For, through his neck, the arrow of the Mede
Drove to the plume: even like a flower he fell,
Shorn by the mower's scythe: his limbs collapsed;
His eyes were quenched; a senseless clod he lay.

That fatal shot Abiathar beheld,
And whence it came; for, with the bow outstretched;
The right hand at the ear; as he had stood
When from the clanging cord the Pest had flown,—

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So, for a moment, watchful of the end,
Still stood Arbaces. Fired with fiercest wrath,
Abiathar unto his charioteer,
With stretched arm pointing eagerly, cried out;
“'Gainst yon accursëd! Him, in the high car
Standing erect—in his left hand a bow.—
He drops it,—lifts a lance. Dost see him now?
There—the huge rebel in the burnished helm,
Blazing like fire. He hath Abijah slain!
Force on the horses. Death to him, or me!”

Thus having cried, he turned; his bow caught up;
And many a bitter arrow 'gainst the Mede
Sent vengefully: but, widely erring, most;
For, like the sway and tumult of the deep,
Was now the clash and uproar of the fight;
Nor could his car, entangled with the rest,
Advance, or stand: but, still for vengeance keen,
All other foes disdaining, on the Mede
His eye he kept; and, ever and anon,
An arrow sent—the mark for every shaft
Him pointing out; that soon a very cloud
Of angry weapons o'er his chariot hung;
Incessantly upon his armour struck;
Upon the charioteer; and on the steeds.

Upstanding in the car, his eagle eye
Arbaces shot around; and quickly saw
The heart of that hot fire. No sooner seen,
Than from his clanging bowstring leaped a shaft,
That on the helmet of Abiathar
Touched like the glance of light: yet harmlessly
Fell not; but in the breast a warrior pierced;
And from his proud height cast him. That fell stroke,
Abiathar beheld; and to the gods
For vengeance called: then, while his bow he bent,
Prayed inwardly; “Oh! in his rebel heart
Fix but this barb! then, life or death to me,
Deal as ye will.” Thus he; and loosed the cord.
Thirsting for vengeance flew the gleaming steel;
But the mark struck not: yet not wholly failed;
For, through the shield of Abner, with hard clang,
It tore its way; and his unguarded arm

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Pierced sharply; that, with mere surprise and pain,
He dropped the buckler, and looked wildly out,
As if to ask what stung him: flushed with shame,
Snapped then the shaft, and raised again the shield,
Burning for vengeance. Vengeance was at hand:
For, at that lucky hit, Abiathar,
Scoffing, called out; “What! hath it touched thee then?
Ah! not the honey of rebellion hope,
Without, sometimes, the sting.”

So he, and laughed;
And with him many. But the fatal shaft
Arbaces took; stood firmly; bent the bow,
And sent forth death. Still laughed Abiathar;
But, laughing, in the air, a lance's length,
Sprang up; and fell stone dead; for, through his mail,
Crashed the steel-headed Fury; snapped the bone,
And in his heart stood fixed.

Pale terror then
Seized on the Assyrians: from the invincible Mede,
Heart and strength gone, at once they turned, and fled.

But, in his chariot driving furiously,
Came Zimri; to Arbaces mortal foe.
In love, war, fame, still he his path had crossed;
But checked him never. On his fierce, dark face,
What maid would look, who, on the godlike brow,
Gold clustered; the large, radiant, deep blue eye,
Might gaze, of young Arbaces? Who his tongue,
Discordant even when love the theme, would list,
When the rich music of Arbaces' voice
Her soul might gladden? Not Hamutah she!

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In love defeated, less in joust of arms,
For victory could he hope: in every strife,—
Though strong, and other might unfearing all,—
By the yet growing boy, his younger far,
Sore tried at first; soon matched; and quickly foiled:
How, then, before the man in strength mature;
The soldier, never mated, could he stand?
Yet deadly hate his strong arm stronger made;
And with the Assyrians leagued him; eager more
His hated foe to crush, than from the yoke
His country loose: for in Achmetha he,
The birth-place of Arbaces, first drew breath;
Nor of ignoble sires. But country, friends,
All ties of love, cast off—to bitterest hate
His heart he yielded. Such was he who now,—
Abiathar beholding, and the arm
By which he fell,—hot as a raging flame,
Flew onward; in his lifted hand a spear
Quivering for vengeance. Swift as arrow-flight,
Shot by his chariot. With contorted face;
Bared teeth, close locked; fire flashing from his eyes;
Passing, he hurled his lance. In haste drew back
Arbaces: and the snarling weapon flew,
Fierce as a hornet, close beneath his arm,
His steel side grazing. Instantly a shaft
In answer sent he: but far off the car
By the hot steeds was rapt; nor turned again.
Still, looking back, the frantic Zimri stood,
With arm uplifted,—mischief threatening still;
And curses shouting; till, amid the throng
Mingling, he passed.

Him answered not the Mede;
Other reply intending, when fit time
Should, for his many crimes, the traitor bring
To bitter payment: but his course held on;
The flying host pursuing.

On the plain
A mound there stood; perchance of some old tower
The mouldered wreck; though, of hewn stone, or clay
Hardened by fire or sun, the work of man,

106

No trace was; nor of that bituminous earth,
Scarce perishable, wherewith thy huge walls,
Old Babylon, were builded: or the grave,
Perchance it was, of some great conqueror;
Far back, when earth was young; whose dread renown
Should, as was thought, to its old age live on:—
What thing soe'er, all was forgotten now:
But there it stood; and far along the plain
Gave prospect. At its base alighting then,
Up ran Arbaces; and quick glances cast
O'er all the battle.

As, on some small rock
Amid the stormy deep, the mariner,
Looking all round, the raging waves beholds
Outstretched immense; and their tremendous roar,
Deep and far-spreading, hears,—even such a sea,
A sea whose billows were contending hosts,
Beheld he now; and, louder far than voice
Of stormy ocean, heard the uproar there.
He saw, rejoicing; for, o'er all the plain,
Like waves before a strong wind driven along,
Moved on the foe: yet unresisting not;
For, as, against the wind, the rapid tide
Strives still, though yielding—its rebellious stream
Against the mightier tempest lifting up;
Though to be whelmed anew—so, while they fled,
Fought still the Assyrians; turning oft again;
And onset still renewing; still to fail.
Like to the tossing foam amid the deep,
The plume-topped helmets rocked; and restless light,—
As from the waters heaving to the sun,—
From the steel corslets flashed, and burning shields,
The glittering armour, and the cars of brass.

O'er all the plain such sight the Mede beheld;
Save only where,—like to a rocky ridge,
Scarce seen above the deep; but, by the roar,
Writhing, and frothing, of the broken waves,
Known to the mariner,—stood firmly yet,
With Salamenes, the fresh infantry.

Him to assault, resolved the exulting Mede:

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Yet, first, across the field a searching look
Cast anxiously—if, of the opposing hosts,
By Abdolonimus led, and Jerimoth,
Might aught be seen: but, still at distance they
Held furious contest: and the burning sun
From out the gasping earth a hazy breath
Had drawn, that on the horizon trembling hung,
Dimming the bloody spot. With earnest gaze,
Awhile he looked—if either host in flight
Moving, or in pursuit, he might descry:
But, of that mighty multitude in arms,
Nought saw he: a dim twinkling mass alone;
Atoms of light in mist. Down then he strode;
Sprang to his chariot; and his host led on.

Bravely did Salamenes on that day
In battle bear him: but his soldiers' hearts
Grew lukewarm; and his enemies' like fire.
Undaunted in defeat; by toil unworn;
With voice, and valiant act, inciting still
To die or conquer—everywhere he flew.
Yet, vain his toil; his valour all in vain:
Still toward the city, with unbating speed,
Flowed on the living deluge; and to heaven
Went up the din appalling of its waves.

So, till the fiery horses of the sun,
The burning wheels down heaven's eternal bridge
Three parts had whirled, the double contests raged:
Then joined in one: for, on all sides driven back,
The Assyrians fled; and toward the city pressed.
Fierce as a madman rending at his chains,
Raged Jerimoth; with hoarse voice, ceaselessly,
Calling to stay the flight: but, like the scream
Of eagle to the tempest, was it lost:
Upon his spearmen, Ahaz called amain;
Upon his horsemen, Adriel: but their hearts
Were terror-stricken, and their arms were weak.
With all their chariots the exulting Medes
Drove on them, crushing: with thick clouds of horse,
Bore them to earth, and trod them like the grass.
So in one shapeless mass commixed they fled.

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Meantime, upon his couch, Assyria's king,
Unconscious of the rout, slept heavily.
Beside him sat the queen; from his pale brow
The cold sweat wiping; on his death-like face
Anxiously gazing; or, with fearful glance
Toward the dread battle-plain, in silent prayer,
Imploring Heaven to aid. Far off, at first,
Nought saw she, save the stir, and flash of arms:
But louder every hour, and louder yet,
The uproar came; and nigher to the walls.
Still in a heavy slumber lay the king;
Nor dared she rouse him. But, ere long, defeat
And havoc hideous she espied. The shouts,
The cries, the bray of arms, the sullen roll
From all the trembling plain,—by chariot wheels
Sore smitten, and the stamp of horse and men,—
Louder and nearer came. Assyria's throne
Seemed falling; and her monarch wounded lay,
And could not help: what could her hapless queen!
Now on the king she looked; now on the field:
A host of thoughts conflicting in her rose;
And, in her soul communing, thus she said:
“What hour is this! what dreadful fate impends!
Is this great empire doomed to pass away?
Her throne of fifteen hundred years to fall?
Can that be her dread monarch,—on his couch,
Bleeding and pale, by rebel's arm struck down,—
Whose breath, but yesterday, could wield the swords
Of millions? Shall I rouse him from his trance?
Yet what avail? Could he go forth to fight?
No; he is weak; his countenance death-pale;
Hurried his breathing; and his clenching hands
Give sign of troubled sleep, and inward ail:
He cannot to the battle. . . . . Still they come!
The plain is all on fire with horrid arms!
Their tramplings are as earthquake! Ye just gods,
Speak with your thunders: fling your hottest fires
In the fierce faces of our impious foes!
Pour down your torrents, till yon arid plain
Turn to a lake sea-deep, to gulf them all,

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Rebellious! that at length they may be taught
The punishment to traitors that is due!
But hark! Oh Powers Eternal aid us now!
Nigher the tempest comes: the gates ere long
Will surely burst before them! Yet remain
Within the city four score thousand men:
To battle must they. On my head the blame!”

Thus resolute, to the court she hastened down;
And, to a soldier of the household guard,
Hurriedly spake. “Fly to Sennacherib;
And say to him, ‘Thus saith Assyria's lord:
Lead instantly from out the nearest gates
Thy four score thousand men, and turn the fight.
The king will arm, and follow.’” Quickly then
To another thus—“Speed to prince Dara, thou;
Bid him the royal chariot, and the arms,
Prepare, and hither bring them. Onward thence;
And to the captain of the royal guard,
Prince Tartan, say: ‘Have ready all thy horse;
And by the palace, at the eastern gate,
Bide the king's coming.’” Having ordered thus,
With swift step toward the chamber she went back.

Her, with wild look, Nehushta met; and cried,
“Fly! fly, dear mother! Like the rage of fire
They come against us! Multitudes of horse,—
To 'scape too happy,—from the field have fled;
Bloody, and wild with fright: nor threat, nor gold,
Can move them to return. ‘Assyria's fate
Is come!’ they cry; ‘The gods decree her doom!’
Haste then, dear mother, haste! My father wake,
If yet he slumbers. Bid the chariots forth!
Fly from the city, not a moment lost;
Lest to the hands of those terrific men
We be delivered, and may perish all.”

So she, her eyes fast streaming; and to her.
The queen replied. “Belovëd daughter, peace!
Danger is near us, but despair far off.
Who meanly flies, draws oft the peril on,
From which he flies: the brave man, by the brave
May be defeated; cowards stoop to all.

110

One day of loss, seals not Assyria's doom:
Her brazen gates are strong; her walls are high;
Her armies, though driven backward, valiant still;
Her riches endless, millions to call forth.
But even yet the battle is not lost:
The stormy day hath oft a smiling eve:
And he that boasts his victory at noon,
Ere sunset, may fly howling. Calm thee then:
Fresh troops are going forth; the city's guard,
With strong Sennacherib. The wearied foe
Hath no reserve; no breathing from his toil;
And must relax. The day, too, is far spent;
And, with the night, he must perforce retire;
Or burst the invincible gates. Thy father lies
In troubled sleep; nor, save at utmost need,
Dare I arouse him. Let Sennacherib
Go first; and prove his valour on the foe.
That failing; hard to think; upon the stake
All must be peril'd. Meantime, clear thy brow:
What is to come, will be; the best, or worst;
And we must bear it. A resolvëd breast
Is like a coat of steel, 'gainst which the darts
Of Fortune strike, and pierce not: cowardice
Is naked to the meanest insect's sting;
And shrinks at every breath.”

That said, she ceased;
And, with Nehushta, to the king returned.
Softly the chamber entering, a light foot
In swift retreat they heard; a closing door
Beheld; and a thin garment, white as snow,
That vanished without noise. Still slept the king:
Yet was his countenance, as by a dream,
Sore troubled. O'er him leaned the queen awhile,
Anxiously gazing: but the roar of fight
Suddenly louder rose; and to the field
Again she turned her eye. With thunder-clouds
The sky was darkening fast: large drops, wide spread,
Fell heavily: hot as a tiger's breath,
Panted the thick air. With a face perplexed,
Now on the king, now on the field, and now

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On her pale child she looked; awaiting still
The onset of Sennacherib. An hour
Of terror, and of silent agony,
Thus stood she gazing. But the battle-flood
Still nigher came: and louder still the roar
Of its dread billows. Once more on the king
She looked: his face was pale; his breathing thick:
She dared not stir him. But Assyria's fate
Might on that moment hang. In her heart, then,
“I will myself go forth,” she said. “Of old
Went not Semiramis, the beauteous queen,
Foremost in combat; over all the east
Marching triumphant? When a woman's foot
Advances to the fight, what man will dare
To play the coward? When their queen leads on,
They must, for shame, be brave. The golden shield,
The helmet of the king, I will put on;
Will in his chariot ride. These, from the gates
Once issuing, seen, the king himself, perchance,
May I, far off, be deemed: a million men,
Now weak and trembling, will wax giants then:
What though, 'neath warrior's arms, a woman's heart
Shall be concealed; his spirit will have flown
Into their spirits; and the blow be struck
Ere the delusion cease.”

Across her mind,
Rapid as lightning, shot the noble thought:
And, to her daughter whispering, thus she said:
“Go now, belovëd child! The king anon
Will waken; and, perchance, to find thee here,
Incensed may be. To thy own chamber go;
And, as thou may'st, be calm: for mightier far
Than man is God; in Him our help must be.”

That said, her daughter's pallid cheek she kissed;
And pressed her to her heart. No word replied
The trembling girl; but her loved mother clasped
Convulsively; and, weeping, went her way.

Once more then on the king Atossa looked,
And on the field. In troubled slumber yet
Lay he: like an outrageous fire, the field

112

Gave out redoubled roarings; grimly dark
Beneath the thunder-roof. With trembling limbs,
But heart resolved, the diamond-flashing helm
Upon her head she fixed; the golden shield
Braced on her arm; a spear, steel-headed, seized;
And with light step, but firm, was hasting forth,—
When, suddenly, the heavens were opened wide,
And the chained lightning loosed. Like a hot blast
Across her face it swept; and with it burst
Thunder that shook the walls. Upsprang the king,
Staggering, and pale. The queen against the door
Leaned, faint, and dizzy; on her dazzled eyes
Pressing her quivering hand. With helm, and spear,
And shield equipped, when her the king beheld,
Aloud he cried—“Where am I?—who art thou?—
Atossa?—what strange frenzy—God of all!
The battle! hark!”

While speaking yet, he ran;
And, looking forth, nigh to the walls,—as seemed,—
The fearful strife beheld. With stern voice then,
“Woman! Oh! woman! thou hast lost the world!
Why didst thou let me sleep?”

“Nay—nay—” she cried;
“Chide me not now: thy chariot waits below;
Thy guard at the eastern gate: if on thy head
Thou canst the helmet place; and if thy limbs
Will bear thee to the combat,—go thou forth.
But, if thou canst not, lo, am I prepared;
And will not falter!”

With a sudden bound,
Sprang on the king; strained her within his arms;
On her flushed cheek one burning kiss impressed:
The bandage from his head then plucked away;
The glittering helmet seized; the golden shield,
The spear; and hurried forth. She after him
Went swiftly, crying aloud, “Nay—go not thus:
Put on thy mail. In thee Assyria lives!
Myriads of swords will flash when thou shalt strike;
An empire will go down if thou shalt fall!
At least thy corslet take—Oh! be not mad!”

113

Nought heard he—in that thunder-storm of fight,
Stone-deaf to all beside. For life, or death,
Forth went he; to his chariot bounded up:
Shrill hissed the scourge: like bended bows let go,
Started the steeds: the rapid wheels streamed fire:
Earth trembled underneath.

A thousand men,
His chosen guard—Assyria's noblest youth—
On Arab steeds, with gorgeous trappings decked,
His coming waited. Dazzling were their arms;
Silver, and gold, bright steel, and gleaming brass;
And helms gem-bossed, that, in the blood-red sun,
Streamed fiery splendor. When the king appeared,
At once their restless horses they let go;
And, swift as tempest, close behind his wheels,
Rode hotly to the contest.

But the queen
Returned not to the chamber: she a car
Bade forth; and to the watch-tower flew again,
To gaze upon the fight.

Dire rout, meantime,
Pursued the Assyrians: nor Sennacherib
Long time delayed it. Furiously at first
Into the field he flew; and, as he went,
Cried ceaselessly, and with him all his host,
“Long live the king! long live Assyria's king!
May the king live for ever!”

But, to them,
Answered deridingly their enemies,
“Assyria's king is slain! the earth is free!”
That hearing, 'gainst the foe, Sennacherib
Pressed through the fliers; calling on them still,
“Back to the battle, back! Oh! bitter shame!
Fly not like women! rather die like men!
The king is coming forth. Turn—turn again!
Turn back upon the foe—to victory turn,—
Or fly to shame; and perish as ye fly!”

So he, against the torrent of the throng,
Struggling unceasingly. But, few his voice
Heard in the uproar; and his toil seemed vain.

114

Yet bravely he, with his own host, awhile,
Stood in the conflict; and the onset checked.

New hope recovering then, from rank to rank
Flew Salamenes; striving in all hearts
Courage to waken, and contempt of death.
Upon the foremost Medians still he flew:
Last to retire, the readiest to advance,
A hundred deaths he dared. At his right hand,
Like a young lion mid the baying hounds,
Nebaioth fought: and, like a hurricane,
Roared Jerimoth; with all his mail-clad steeds,
Plunging in fight: and, like devouring flame,
Burned Zimri; underneath his chariot wheels,
Maniac-like, down casting foe, and friend!

But, nought the Assyrians' hearts could long sustain.
Again went up the cry, “The king hath fallen!
Fly to the city! and make fast the gates!
Shed not your blood in vain! The day is lost!
God for the rebel fights: our strength is nought!
Fly to the city, fly!”

So cried they out;
For, like a fire, Arbaces in their rear
Awfully raged; and terror from his eyes,
And with his voice, into their hearts infused;
Their strength consuming. In his chariot, now,
Upon their chariots drove he, and their horse;
Now, leaped to earth, and in the thickest throng
Pursued the foe: and, arm to arm, was none
That dared before him stand. Belesis too,
Still in his priestly vestment only clad,
Far o'er the field was seen: nor fear had he
Of mortal weapon; for his trust was God:
Still pointed he to heaven; still cried aloud,
“On, men of Babylon, to victory on!
Into your hands hath God delivered them!
Yon haughty city ye shall burn with fire;
Shall break her gates of brass; throw down her walls,
And sweep her from the earth; for she hath been
Abominable in her wickedness:

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Earth heaveth at her, and will cast her forth:
God will destroy her! Men of Babylon,
Drive them before you! pour into the gates!
God bids you on! The thunder is his voice!
Sky darkens with the terror of his wrath:
His fiery arrows is he shooting forth:
The tempest of his vengeance is let loose:
He will destroy them utterly! On! On!
Heed not the sword, the arrow, nor the spear:
God is your captain; God is your defence;
Your shield is Heaven. Shout, men of Babylon!
Cry out aloud, and say, ‘Great Nineveh!
The day of thy destruction is at hand!’”

Storming high heaven, went then from host to host,
Peal after peal, the cry, “Great Nineveh,
The day of thy destruction is at hand!”

Then Abdolonimus, as with the force
Of billows overbreaking, on the foe
Drove with his chariots: the Arabian horse
Like hurricane bore them down.

Far off, the king,
To battle hotly driving, heard the roar;
Oft to the sky he looked; and toward the plain;
Back toward the fast descending sun looked oft;
And for the eagle's pennons vainly longed,
Or speed of winds, that he the fatal blow
Might yet turn by. Foam-covered flew the steeds:
The bounding wheels, fire rapt, roared ceaselessly.

And now the flight, by brave Sennacherib
Brief time delayed, to wilder rout 'gan change.
He his far mightier in the conflict met,—
Arbaces; and, with fury filled, his spear
Hurled at him instantly. But, with his shield,
The watchful Mede the weapon turned aside;
Then, from his chariot leaping, swift as wind,
Sprang toward the Assyrian. At his coming, fled,
Like deer before the lion, the scared foes;
All save Sennacherib: he, dauntless, stood;
Though from that terrible arm, with life to escape,

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Scarce hoping: his broad shield on high upraised;
His sword drew forth; and, lifting up his voice,
Cried out, “Haste, haste, Assyrians! hither haste!
The fierce arch-rebel comes! the traitor-chief!
Upon him every man!”

That call, the ears
Of Salamenes and Nebaioth reached:
And, swiftly as they might, through the thick press
Their steeds they urged. But, on Sennacherib
Fell, like a thunderbolt, the dreadful Mede:
Fatal as death, the heavy battle-axe
In his strong hand uplifting,—helmet, shield,
Or other armour, of whatever proof,
Before that arm, and weapon, useless all!
The gleaming engine high above his head,
Shuddering, Sennacherib saw; and, at full stretch—
The blow to check, or turn—his buckler raised:
But, through the shield, as through thin ice, the axe
Irresistibly burst; the helmet smote askaunt;
Glanced, and passed off: as with a cymbal's ring,
From the steel helmet glanced; and wounded not:
Yet, with the shock, as if by lightning struck,
Senseless the Assyrian fell. A second stroke,
On a fallen enemy, the Mede disdained;
Shook from his axe the riven shield; turned round;
And to his car leaped up: but other foes
Against him coming, saw; hot for revenge,
Nebaioth, Salamenes; and, with them,
Horsemen, and chariots. Catching up his bow,
'Gainst them, with hasty aim, a shaft he sent;
And not in vain; for, as with arm upraised,—
His followers with loud clamors cheering on,—
Shaking a brazen dart, Nebaioth came,—
Just on the elbow's tip the arrow struck,
Grazing the bone. Down fell his arm benumbed:
The threatening dart, from his relaxing hand,
Dropped to the earth; yet still aloud he cried,
Exhorting to resist.

That arrow-stroke

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Saw Salamenes; and his lance upraised,
Vengeance intending: but, of his loved friend
Regardful, to him thus. “Now get thee back;
Speed from the field, Nebaioth, while thou may:
Thou cannot aid us, wounded as thou art;
And surely wilt be slain.”

While yet he spake,—
Lifting his lance, his foaming horse he drove
Right toward the Mede. But, in their hot career,
Rider and steed fell headlong. Drawing nigh,
The Mede beheld them; and his monstrous spear
Hurled. On the throat the noble horse it struck:
Through the strong brazen mail, with hideous crash,
Burst; and sank deep. Down fell he, dead: fell down
With dreadful clang his mail-clad rider too:
The useless lance let go—with out-spread hands,
Head foremost, to the horses of the Mede,
Bruising their feet, he fell. The affrighted steeds
Started aside; and with the car ran round.

From both the hosts terrific clamors then
Went up: the Medes exulting; but their foes
Fear-struck, and sorrowing. Hastily turned these,
Calling aloud, “Fly, fly, Assyrians, fly!
Speed to your walls: your leader is no more!
Brave Salamenes is no more! fly, fly!
Heaven is against us!”

But the Medes bore on,
Crying unceasingly; “Rejoice! rejoice!
Into our hands hath God delivered them!
The tyrant and his chosen ones are fallen!
On to the city; on!”

So they. Meantime,
Arbaces, from his chariot leaping, stooped;
And from the earth—slight load to arm so strong,—
The senseless warrior lifted, and bore off;
Captive to hold him. But Nebaioth now,
That sight beholding, vehemently called,
Exhorting to the rescue. “On! press on!
Strike down the rebel! save your noble chief!

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Let him not perish! leave him not the spoil
Of the black traitor! Oh that this right arm
Were what it was; then should one faithful sword
Strike to redeem him! Haste, ere yet too late!
On! every man speed on!”

Incited thus,
Against the Mede a cloud of horsemen urged,
With spear and falchion: but, to aid him, flew
As many: and the tumult round him raged.

He, meantime, in a chariot that drew nigh,
His load laid down, and thus: “Now, with all speed,
Haste from the press, Hilkiah: slack his helm,
For freer breath: but, on thy life, take heed
That he escape not: haste! away, away!”

So he; and, bounding like an antelope,
Ran to his car; leaped up; another spear
Seized, and to Abner thus: “Turn round the steeds,
And drive into the midst. The hour is come!”
Then, standing up, and stretching forth his arms,
He called unto his legions; “On! on! on!
The city shall be ours! Her doom is fixed!
Hark! the gods call you! To the gates! the gates!”

Toward the black, thunderous ceiling pointing up,
Thus cried he; and among the Assyrian host
Poured terror. For a time, Nebaioth strove
Their hearts to strengthen,—with soul-stirring voice
Urging them on, and toward Hilkiah's car
Pointing, and pressing forward,—but, ere long,
Borne to the earth, rider and horse went down:
And, from the trampling hoofs when he escaped,—
Bruised, stunned, and staggering,—to a car he climbed;
Bowed low his head; and swooned.

Foul overthrow
O'er all the field was now: toward every gate
Terrific was the rush: nor longer strove
For victory even the bravest; hope was none!
Like lions by a swoln stream borne away,
In a stern silence struggling, back they went.
Vain to implore the fliers! none could hear;

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So cried the vanquished; so the victors stormed;
So roared the thunders: step by step they went;
Blow for blow dealing; yet despairing still.

Wide stood the brazen gates: with thronging heads
The walls were thick. Women were there, with hands
Uplifted to the gods; and grey-haired men,
Their withered arms outstretching toward the plain;
Children, and beardless youths, and maidens pale.

Toward the great central eastern portal now,—
Scarce three short arrow-flights distant—horse, cars, foot,
Mingled confusedly, pressed,—that, in the gate,
Hideous and bloody would have been the crush.
Jaded with toil; with sweat and dust begrimed;
Panting for breath; for thirst agape, they came:
The glittering cars, the gay caparisons,
The shining arms, the plumes of gorgeous hue,
Blood-spattered; fouled with dust,—in such dire rout
Fled they; and, close behind, the fiery foe,
Driving them on, and slaying—when, behold!
Swift as an eagle darting from a cloud,
From out the gate a single chariot shot!
Erect the rider sat; a golden shield
Upon his left arm grasping; in his right
A spear; and on his head a glittering helm:
All else unarmed. The royal car was known;
The milk-white steeds: but who was he that rode?
Swift as a tempest came the chariot on;
And, close behind, on Arab coursers fleet,
Assyria's royal guard. Burst out, at length,
A deafening cry; “The king! the king comes forth!
The king of kings to battle comes again!
The rebels will he scatter, like the dust;
Will trample them as grass!”

O'er all the field
Flew on the cry: from tower to tower it flew:
And every heart that for Assyria stood,
Grew valiant; every wearied arm waxed strong;
And every eye flashed light. The vanquished turned

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Upon the vanquishers: the hunted prey,
On the fierce hunter turned: the cry of fear,
To calls of vengeance changed: the conqueror's vaunt
Sank into silence: and the lion-heart
Panted with sudden awe.

As, when a fire
Devours the forest, and a strong wind blows,—
The roaring flames above the tall trees bow;
And, with unnumbered burning hands outstretched,
The green, umbrageous heads, resistlessly
Do seize and blacken:—which way blows the storm,
There, smoke and darkness fly; and, in pursuit,
Fierce fire and splendor: but, if backward then,
In moody madness, doth the tempest turn,—
Then backward, too, the fiery deluge rolls:
Where brightness was, lo! smoke and darkness, now!
Where darkness and thick smoke, fierce fire and light!—
Even so, before the strong, exulting Mede,
The Assyrians fled: even so the battle-storm
Veered backward: and the victors turned to flight;
The vanquished chased the victors.

With a shout,
Louder than thunders, did that mighty host
Turn suddenly; and on the astonished Medes,
Drive like a hurricane. These, confused and stunned;
Heard, saw, and wavered: for, as one to four,
Their numbers were: their limbs with toil were worn:
They had no walls of refuge. All amazed,
A moment stood they looking doubtfully,—
Turned, looked again; and fled.

Din twofold then
O'er all the field arose; and, from the wall,
The cry of myriads. Shrieks of joy went up;
Songs of thanksgiving; loud and frenzied prayers;
Pantings, and sobbings, wails, and laughter loud.
Women, and priests, children, and grey-haired men,
Ran to and fro; or on their knees fell down,
With hands and eyes uplifted to the gods;
For their deliverance praising; on their foes
Destruction calling down.

121

The king, meantime,
Rushed to the victory. On the flying rear,
Chariots and horsemen drove: spears, arrows, darts,
Like hail-cloud followed them.

But, as a rock
Against a thousand waves, Arbaces stood;
And dashed away, like foam, the flood of foes.
O'er every other sound his voice went forth,
Urging again to battle. Like a rock,
Now stood he, and threw back the bursting waves:
Now, like a gallant ship, with straining sails,
And proud beak lifted high, above them rode,
Resistless in his might. Belesis, too,
Upraised his voice, and cried unto the gods.
In priestly garb alone, still rode he on,
Heedless of peril; everywhere he toiled;
Still calling on the fliers to turn back;
Still victory promising. But now his voice
Waxed hoarse with shouting; and all ears were deaf.
Nor Abdolonimus, nor Azareel,
Nor dark Rabsaris, could the panic stay;
Nor all the valiant captains of the host:
For a soul-withering terror had gone forth;
And every arm was weak. So fled they on;
And so the foe pursued.

But darkness now
Fell rapidly; and the big clouds, o'ercharged,
Poured down their waters. Over all the sky
The black arch thickened; and the thunders spake
Louder and deeper to the quickening bolts.

In fierce pursuit, not less, drove on the king.
But, mindful of that promise, in the bower
To loved Nehushta given,—with fervent prayer,
And admonition frequent, Dara strove,
From peril imminent to turn him back:
Nor strove, at length, in vain. But, though, ill armed,
And feeble as the monarch knew himself,
Wisely the strife he shunned; yet, to pursue
And slay, oft called he: for his brother's fate,—
Fallen, as he deemed, or captive,—maddened him;

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That, recklessly, into the thickest fight,—
All admonition flinging to the winds,—
Longed he to plunge.

But Salamenes now,
Unharmed, amid the van of battle rode;
Hilkiah's horses ruling; while their lord
Upon the field lay slain. From his long trance
Awakened, he the altered field had found:
The Assyrians heard triumphant; and the Medes,
Routed, and flying. Motionless awhile
Yet lay he, quick deliverance hoping now;
To the strange tumult listening anxiously;
And to his captors' voices; as, with hearts
Sore troubled, from the hopeless strife they flew.
But, when his limbs ungyved he found; and strength
Returned unto him; he no longer paused:
But—as Hilkiah backward looking stood,—
Sprang; and, a brazen javelin snatching up,
Upon the temple smote the charioteer;
That he fell dead. In the next point of time,
Hilkiah by the crest he seized; bowed back;
And cast him to the ground. Beneath the wheels,
Struggling, fell he, and died. The fallen reins
Upsnatching then,—with quick glance through the gloom
He looked; and instantly—nor far away—
His coming friends beholding, cried aloud,
And cheered them on to victory. At that cry,
Up went a peal triumphant; and his name,
From van to rear, through all the fight was borne.
The tidings glad, Assyria's monarch heard,
Rejoicing; and called out, “Blow, trumpets, blow!
And let the battle cease; lest friend, by friend,
May in the darkness perish.”

At the word,
A single trumpet its clear summons blew:
A thousand joined; and their loud clangors sent
Up to the answering clouds. Like ocean's roar,
O'er all the plain ran then the joyful cry,
Proclaiming victory.

123

From the contest, soon,
Both armies 'gan retire; for, with worse rage,
Came on the storm: in torrents fell the rain;
The wind arose; the lightnings thicker flashed;
Earth shook beneath the thunders. To the walls
Hasted the Assyrians; toward their camp, the Medes.

Still Jerimoth, and Zimri, victory-mad,—
In the wild hurly meeting,—through the dark
The flying rear pursued; till them, at length,
Arbaces met, and their hot frenzy cooled.
Betwixt the armies dreadless as he rode,—
The fierce assailants ever driving back;
The routed cheering,—him the furious chiefs
Beheld; and, vengeance thirsting, toward him flew:
One in his car, the other on his steed,
Together flew they. He, while yet far off,—
For the bright lightnings, ever and anon,
To sun-light glare the thickening darkness changed,—
The chiefs descrying, bade his charioteer
Against them drive. A gleaming lance on high
Shaking, to throw, came Zimri; and, with dart
Of flaming brass, in his uplifted hand,
The horseman. Both sides eagerly advanced;
The charioteers their coursers urging on
To swiftest speed. But, ere they met, died out
The lightning torches; and thick blackness fell;
Blackness abrupt and deep. Darkling they met;
Wheel 'gainst wheel grinding fire,—clashed—and flew on.
Each, as they crossed, by the red glimmer saw,
Like phantom glimpse, the lurid countenance
Of his fierce foe; but, ere an eye could wink,
Darkness had gulped them.

Jerimoth, his steed
Rapidly turning, by the chariot's roll
Tracked through the night his enemy. Abner, too,
His horses curbing, for renewed attack,
The car 'gan turn. Flamed now with flash on flash,
The clouded sky-vault. Jerimoth then the steeds,
Before him a brief space, round wheeling, saw;
And cast his javelin. On the thigh it struck

124

The startled enemy; through the armour pierced;
And lanced the flesh. Unheeding the slight hurt,
The Mede plucked forth the dart; his great spear hurled;
And, in same moment, from the chariot leaped;
His huge axe wielding.

Through the courser's mail
Burst, with loud crash, the spear; and in his chest,
Deep buried, stood. Without a groan he fell:
Bent his strong knees; and rolled upon the earth:
At trumpet-summons never more to start;
Beneath his rider never more to bound,
And glory in the battle. Down he dropped;
Heavily rolling: and his mighty limbs
In the last death-spasm stretched.

But Jerimoth,
From the fallen steed, light as a deer, upsprang:
His sword drew forth; and toward the dreadful Mede
Franticly flew. Then, on the same red couch,
Rider and horse had slept: but that again
Thick darkness, like a pall, dropped over them,
And stayed the threatening axe. With arms prepared,
Both chiefs a moment stood; the fitful light
Anxiously waiting: but the Assyrian's heart,
Brave as he was, misgave him, standing there
Singly to that invincible arm exposed;
And, in his soul communing, thus he said.

“Why pause I now; and let the moment pass
That steps 'twixt me and fate? What hope have I
From this scarce human force with life to escape?
Who yet hath vanquished him? who, harmless, felt
His weapon in the combat? Once that axe,
Death menacing, above my head hath gleamed;
And yet I live: but, in mere madness, now,
Shall I invite destruction? No! away!
From greater strength the bravest may retire;
Nor play the coward.”

Briefly pondering thus;
With silent step, rapidly back he drew;
Shunning the contest; and straight toward the car
Of Zimri hasted; for him now he heard,

125

With headlong fury driving through the night,
And on Arbaces calling. Then his voice
Uplifted he, and cried, “Stay, Zimri, stay:
A moment pause; and let me mount the car;
That, both together, once more may we try
The fortune of the field.”

Him Zimri heard;
And stayed the coursers. To the chariot then
Leaped Jerimoth: and toward their hated foe,—
Hearing his voice,—impetuously they drove.
“Where art thou?” cried the Mede, “thou mighty one:
Where art thou, Jerimoth?”

Thus calling loud,
He knew not that the car was coming on,—
Right toward him rapidly driven. For Zimri thus
To Joab spake, his furious charioteer,
And comrade fit; “Now Joab, take thou heed
That he escape not. Guide the horses well
That they may trample him: or that the wheels
May dash him down. Grasp with both hands the reins.
I see him now!—On! while the lightning flares.”

That hearing, Joab to his steeds the reins
Up flung: and away, with the speed of the wind,
Right toward the Mede they flew.

Yet he their tramp
Heard not,—so loud the din: nor Abner saw
The coming danger; toward the flying host
Looking afar. But, turning suddenly,—
For rapidly on came the thick-beating hoofs,—
Arbaces, close upon him, saw the steeds;
And the demoniac laugh of Zimri heard;
Who him full surely underneath the feet
Deemed trampled then. But, at a bound, he sprang
From the path of the horses aside.
Their breath blew hot in his ear:
His shoulder with foam was white:
Like the sweep of the storm they passed.
Even in the instant, with his battle-axe,
A giant blow, unknowing where, he dealt.
On the whirling wheel, the crushing weapon struck:

126

The wheel was brass; its spokes were bars of steel.
But it broke, and the car dipped low; jarring, leaped up;
Plunging,—rebounding,—tossing right and left,—
Clattering, and clanging,—madly tore along;
And, still in full career, flat to the earth,
Loud clashing fell.

Unharmed rose Jerimoth:
But, senseless on the ground—with violence flung—
Zimri, and Joab lay.

With terror wild,
Away with the shattered car the coursers flew;
Ploughing the earth. At break of morning, they,
Nigh to the gate of Bel, all white with foam,
Trembling, and weak, were found: but, of the car,
The broken pole excepted, nought remained.

Above his senseless fellows, Jerimoth
Silently stood,—the onset of the Mede,
In awe awaiting. But, their overthrow
Unknowing, from the slaughtered steed his spear
In haste Arbaces drew; and to his seat
Lightly upspringing, for new strife prepared.
Expecting thus, long paused he: but no sound
Gave token of their coming; nor their car,
Near, or far off, he saw. To Abner then;
“Turn now the steeds: whatever stays them thus;
Whether new aid they seek, or safe retreat;
Not longer will I tarry: for the host
Is distant far; and in the camp may be
Wild havoc, uncontrolled.”

That said, they went:
Through darkness, and great light, alternately,
Slackening, and speeding.

Nor the Assyrians long
Upon the field remained: for Jerimoth,
Short space away, two friendly cars beheld,
Slowly returning; and his voice sent forth;
And summoned them. Amazed, and giddy still,
Yet else unharmed; to the first chariot then
Zimri and Joab rose: but Jerimoth,

127

With young Talmai in the other sat;
And fought again the battle.

Toward their camp
Still flew the Medes; the Assyrians through their gates;
Through every wide-flung gate in haste they flew:
For still the thunders roared; the tempest howled;
And the bright bolts came down. At every flash,
Outflamed the mighty city—her huge towers,
And palaces—her wall gigantic, thronged
With gazing myriads—flamed out all the plain—
Chariots, and horse, plumes, banners, gleaming arms;
And multitudes, as of the ocean waves.

“Here fell a brave man, Cleonymus, a Lacedemonian, who was wounded in the side by an arrow that made its way through both his shield and his buff coat. Here also fell Basias, an Arcadian, whose head was pierced quite through with an arrow.”

“The barbarians were very skilful archers: their bows were near three cubits in length, and their arrows above two. When they discharged their arrows they drew the string by pressing upon the lower part of the bow with their left foot. These arrows pierced through the shields and corslets of our men, who, taking them up, made use of them instead of darts, by fixing thongs to them.”

—Xenophon's Expedition of Cyrus, Book iv.

128

BOOK THE SEVENTH.

Night hangs o'er Nineveh: the winds are still;
The rain hath ceased; the thunders are gone by.
From out the rocky, slowly rolling clouds,
With melancholy eye, the waning moon
Looks fitfully. Their arms to the pale light
Obscurely glimmering, on the lofty walls
Pace slowly the o'erwearied sentinels.
Exhausted with that day of blood and toil,
Soundly the warriors slumber: but the king
Rests not; for of the battle are his thoughts;
And of the things to come. Twice from his couch
He sprang, and bade the captains of his host
Be called before him; “while the rebel sleeps,
My armies shall go forth, and trample him;”
And twice, when on the night he looked abroad,
And on the toils of that long conflict thought,
The mandate he recalled. Next, on the seer,
And that strange prophecy, so pondered he,
That terror chilled him; and impatiently,
Sick to the heart, aloud he called for wine.
But Peresh, who in chamber nigh kept watch,
Hearing, went forth, and, lowly bowing down,
Entreated him forbear; “Yet, of the cup
That I have mingled, wilt thou deign to drink,
Thy pain shall pass; and grateful slumber come.”

To him the king; “No more; a second time,
Would'st thou Assyria to her base might shake,

129

While I, that should uphold her, idly sleep?
Thy slumbrous draught, be sure, I taste not now;
Yet, for I know thee skilful, from the grape
I also will abstain: content thee so.
But not upon this hot and restless bed,
With brain delirious, longer will I lie:
Go; bid the marble hall be lighted up:
By the cool fountain let my couch be placed:
Call up my concubines; with song and dance
They shall rejoice me: bid the music speak
While I arise; and every face be glad;
For, of these black, and heart-corroding thoughts,
I will not be the slave.”

He said, and rose.
The trembling leech in silence went: and, soon,
Near to the chamber, instrument and voice
Brought smile on frowning night. In haste the king
His robes threw on; but, suddenly, made pause,
And bade the music cease; for, in his soul,
The darkness came again, as on the seer
His thoughts returned, and those forebodings dread.
Within himself then thus: “Of fantasy
Am I the trembling fool—the threatened ill,
Fearfully pondering thus? Or doth, in truth,
The gifted eye through the dark future look
On things by Fate decreed? But other seers,
With eye as keen, the mystic book may read;
And better auguries, perchance, behold:
Or, even if worst, yet happier were I so,
Trebly assured, than thus in doubt involved;
Since evil, certain, lighter to endure,
Than fear of ills unknown.”

For Peresh then
He called, and thus: “Prophet, or sage, know'st thou,
Magician, or astrologer—wise to read,
And true to expound, the book of destiny?”

To him, low bowing, the physician thus:
“Through all the earth renowned, O king of kings!
From Time's first dawn, have been Chaldea's seers.
Astrologers, interpreters of dreams,

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Many there are, and cunning: but thy priests,
They, too, by signs, and victims” . . . .

“Nought of them,”
With hasty interruption said the king;
“Wrongly they read, or falsely they expound;
Deceived, or else deceivers; either way
Of trust unworthy. Get thee forth at once;
And who, by magic, or that greater art,
In heaven's bright eyes to read man's destiny,—
For, if, in truth, of mortal weal or woe
Stars aught declare,—of empires and of kings
Surely the doom they tell,—who, in these arts,
The wisest, and most potent, is allowed,
Him straightway bring before me.”

Bending low,
Peresh withdrew. With darkened brow, the king
Along the silent chamber, to and fro,
Paced slowly: paused at length; and toward the field,
Awe-stricken looked. Like stillness of the corse,
From life's hot conflict resting,—gloomily,
Beneath the dim light lay the gory plain.
Like to the blackened ashes, cold and dead,
Wherein so lately had the Spirit of fire
Triumphantly his flaming banners waved,—
The silent battle-field, a drear obscure,
Grimly reposed; shield, helmet, falchion, spear,
Corslet, and broken chariot,—never more
Their owners' proud arms in the fight to aid,—
To the cold moon-beam gleaming. In his heart,
The stillness, and the desolation, spake
With more than trumpet-tongue; thoughts calling up
Such as, till then, within him ne'er had waked:
Motionless, rapt, he stood; sighs breaking forth,
And heart-heaved groans. With gentle hand, at length,
His arm was touched; and, when he turned, behold!
Azubah stood before him; and, with voice
Mild as the brooding dove; 'tween her soft palms
His hot hand pressing; her pale cheek, and eye,
With tear-drops bright, after short silence, thus.

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“Is thy soul troubled, and shall I not soothe?
Shall I not sing the songs that thou hast loved?
The tales shall I not tell that gladdened thee?
Hast thou not triumphed? wherefore art thou sad?
Go to thy couch; and I the harp will wake
To gentlest music, that thy wounded mind,
As with kind balm, shall heal; and softest songs
I'll breathe to thee; that slumber sweet shall fall;
And lull thy sorrows to forgetfulness.”

To her the king,—upon her cheek, a kiss,
Tenderly pressing; “If soft witchery
Of music could my sick heart heal, by thee,
Thee only, might the blessed charm be wrought:
But all within me now is dark and dread;
Mine eye in beauty findeth no delight,
Nor in sweet sounds mine ear: the bloody field,
Cries, groans, and sights of pain, and ghastly death,
Torture my soul, and comfort quite shut out.
And, for the days to come, o'er them hangs night,
With shapes of terror filled, that from the gloom
Look out, and threaten. Leave me, then, alone:
Music, nor soft discourse, for me hath charms;
But silence only, and this solitude.
Go thou unto thy couch; and visions bright,
To happier scenes, thy gentle spirit bear.”

His hand she kissed, and went. He, to and fro,
In melancholy musing, walked; and found
No ray to cheer his gloom. But Peresh now,
With the astrologer, came before the king;
Bowed humbly, and withdrew. A little while,
Silent the monarch stood; upon the form,
And features of the man, with searching eye,
Intently gazing. He, before the king
Bent reverent; and, with eyes cast down, stood mute.
Dark red his ample robes: around his waist
A silver serpent, double-headed, coiled;
In his right hand, a serpent, for a rod,
He held; a silver serpent, round a stem
Of gold entwined: the jaws wide open stood;
Pearls were the teeth, the eyes of carbuncle,

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The waving tongue was ruby. On his breast,—
With unknown signs and mystic letters graven;
Figures of man, and beast, in mixture strange;
Planets, and sun, and moon,—a broad bright plate
Of gold was bound. His head was bald with age;
His long beard snowy white: yet was his form
Strong, and majestic: and his large gray eye,
'Neath his broad furrowed brow, burned steadily.

To him, at length, the king: “The strength of youth
Seems in thy limbs; but, on thy forehead, years
Have left their footprints. Such should be the wise.
Tell me, old man; by your mysterious art,
Can ye, in verity, with clear eye pierce
The dark to-come; and the decrees of Fate
Surely interpret? or, with erring aim,
At the invisible thing do ye but shoot
Subtle conjecture, chance-directed all?
Or, rather, with mysterious show and pomp
Your ignorance veiling, blind ye not the sight
Of your weak, trusting victims; first your spoil,
And, at the last, your mockery? But, beware!
Nor with the monarch trifle; for his wrath
Is hard to be endured. Thy name declare;
Thy power, and whence it comes: and, be it good,
Or be it evil, which thine eye foresees,
When in the dark of time I bid thee look;
Say it, and fear not.”

Raising then his head,
Thus to the king the aged astrologer spake:
“May the king live for ever! To his words,
His servant shall reply. Do not the heavens
Hang out their signs; sun, moon, and countless stars,
Wandering, or fixed; of seasons, cold, or heat,
Winds, thunders, floods, prognosticating still?
Shall not a raindrop, unforeboded, fall?
Yet, shall an empire flourish, or decay;
Battle be lost, or won; great kings be born,
Or pass away, and not one omen cry,
Lo! this thing cometh? Surely as the cloud,
After long drought arising, doth the rain

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Declare at hand,—so surely, in the heavens
The signs proclaim, when God the doom of man,
Evil, or good, decrees. In words of light
The judgment standeth; but, to few made known.
With eye unerring, never man hath read;
To error prone, the wisest. Darkly, some,
With knowledge crude, have guessed; yet, vainly bold,
Said, ‘thus it shall be’: some, and far the most,
Blind, and presumptuous; hypocrites, and cheats;
With show of wisdom, tricks, and cunning lies,
Their ignorance and impotence conceal;
Weak men to lure, and make of them their prey:
The art divine debasing thus, mean ends,
Selfish and base, to serve. Yet, not from such,
Of all the judgment be; since, of a truth,
To him that readeth, do the heavens declare,
Yea the bright gods themselves, the will of God.
Hence are the wisdom and the power I claim;
That to predict which God with visible hand
Hath in heaven's scroll set down: by word, or charm,
Forbidden, seeking not the dead to raise,
Or spirits evil,—from their mouths, enforced,
The hidden things to learn; knowledge accurst!
And powerful but to ill! Mophis, my name:
Chaldean born; and of a race, by fame
Not all unnoted. Of the future aught
If thou, O king! wouldst ask,—with fearless tongue,
To lies unused; far as mine eye can pierce
The darksome Vast, I will respond to thee.”

His words the monarch's doubting mind assured:
Then, of Assyria's fate, and of his own,
Much he enquired: but answers dark and vague
Received; that to his heart no comfort gave;
Nor certainty of aught. With lowering brow,
At length, thus sternly: “Stay,—I'll hear no more.
That nothing can be known, thou'st made me know;
And much I thank thee. Come what fate may come,
With blind conjectures I no more will make
A torment to my soul. To every day
Sufficient its own evil: let it fall

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Undreaded, and but half its sting is felt.
The wretch that is to die, as much endures
From dark foreshadowings, as from death itself.
I will not, like a coward, peep, and quake,
To see the blow descending. The great gods
Are over us; and, what they will, they will.”

So he; and from the table took the cup
In which, untasted, the oblivious draught,
By Peresh tempered, stood: the cup was gold.
This in the old man's hand he placed, and said;
“Take it; and, if more pleasant dreams than thine,—
Vainer thou canst not,—thou wouldst have; the draught
Drink down: else, cast it from thee. Like the gold,
Is real wisdom; but thine idle lore,
Like the thin, dreamy drug.”

With scornful tone,
And look, he spake. The old man lowly bowed,
But answer none returned: yet, in his heart,
Scorn for scorn meted back: “And what art thou,
Imperious monarch! over all the world
Aping the God, but a frail thing of clay;
A miserable vessel of vile earth;
O'erwashed to look like gold? Heed that the sword
Strike not thy hollow sides; and, breaking, show
The gilded potsherd. But, whatever thou,
Thy gift is golden.” Thus within himself
The old man said; and went.

To his couch again
The monarch sank; and closed his eyes for sleep.
It fled him: for his thoughts, like dogs in chase
Of what they find not, with impatient heat,
Still in the dusky future, to and fro,
Panted, and found no comfort. On the past
Then turned his baffled mind; and, while he thought,
Anger, by short repose made doubly strong,
Terribly shook him. Vengeance he resolved;
Instant and dreadful. Salamenes then
He bade be summoned: “Surely shall this day
The overthrow of the base rebels see!
Their boldest shall be trampled under foot;

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The chains be on their mightiest.” Speaking thus,
He started up; the chamber, to and fro,
With quick steps paced; and, ever and anon,
Cried, “Wherefore comes he not? why sleepeth he?”

But Salamenes was already waked:
For, by his couch the care-distracted queen
Stood; stirred him; and thus spake: “Oh! sleepest thou,
Belovëd brother! in this awful hour,
When our own fate, with all Assyria's, hangs
Doubtfully balanced? Woful is the time!
On yonder plain, how many myriads lie,
Dying, or dead! how many myriads yet,
If the fierce contest be renewed, must fall!
But, is no remedy left? Within thy soul
Take counsel now; and, if aught good thou see,
With speech persuasive, urge it on the king,
That this dread strife may end. For, to the foe
Should he thus say, ‘Cast down your rebel arms;
Ask mercy of the king, and he will hear,’—
Surely they now would hearken, and obey!
This in thy heart revolve; and all the chance
Of dangerous warfare: haply, so, the fate
That threatens, may pass by.”

While yet he spake,
Came the quick-panting messenger; and told
The summons of the king. “I come, I come,”
Said Salamenes; “Briefly now farewell,
Sister beloved: but speed thou to thy couch.
Not unremembered shall thy counsel be;
For, in thy words is wisdom: but his heart
Is proud, and daring: hope not, lest I fail.”

At once the queen retired. From off his bed
Rose Salamenes then: a silken robe
Around his manly limbs threw hastily;
The glittering girdle clasped; upon his feet
The sandals bound; then, through the spacious courts,
Vast echoing halls, and galleries, to the king,
Deep musing, sped. Him, entering, with sharp tone,
The monarch thus assailed: “Thou sleepest well:

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Pity Assyria's safety, thy soft dreams
Should discompose. . . . . Nay, hearken to me now;
And blame me not, if, all on fire myself,
A spark on thee I cast. On yonder field
What eye can look, nor for swift vengeance burn?
Defeated, yet the impious rebel lives;
Fresh treason ponders. To mature his thought
To action, shall we leave him undisturbed?
Or, while confounded by his first repulse,
Go forth, and utterly crush him? What forbids
That we our conquering hosts, while yet 'tis night,
Lead out, and end him? Not again the storm,
And darkness, from just punishment will shroud
His trembling limbs. The serpent wounded lies;
Writhing, and powerless: but the hateful flesh
Will close again; and all his strength return;
If now we pause, and ply not blow on blow.
Speak, and be brief, if counsel different
Thou wouldst oppose; for, of a wary mind
I know thee, though right valiant: freely speak.

A moment Salamenes silent stood;
Then, with calm tone, to the hot monarch thus.
“The rebel to o'erthrow, if but the will,
The act could be,—not swifter in thy breast,
The wish, O king! than in my own, would rise:
For, though, by labor spent, the flesh may sleep,
My spirit slumbereth not; nor burns my zeal
With ardor less than thine: but toil, and blood;
Wisdom to plan; and valour to enact;
And fortitude to bear,—all will this strife
Demand, and amply. With unbridled rage,
In strength alone, and numbers, confident,
If boastful we go forth, the foe to crush,—
Too soon an awful lesson may we learn,
Our pride to humble. Are their arms less strong
Than yesterday; when, from the hour of noon,
Until the setting of the sun, they stood,
In might superior, though in numbers less;
Even to the gates victorious; till thyself,
Singly to battle coming, in our hearts
New soul infused; our heroes into gods,

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Our cowards into heroes, at thy look
Transforming? Nor inglorious, then, the flight;
As well thou know'st. Thy foe know better then;
Nor, like a slave, or child intractable,
By loud command, or lifting of the scourge,
Think to subdue him. Hear my counsel now;
Wiser, I ween, though humbler. Let this day
Be peace betwixt us; while the armies both,
Their dead inter; else, may the infected air
Plagues bring among us, harder to be quelled
Than even this strife. Unto the rebels, then,
Send thou upon the morrow, and thus say:
‘To every man that shall his arms lay down,
Repenting; and the mercy of the king
Humbly implore; to him shall mercy come:
And of his guilt” . . . . .

“Stay, stay; I'll hear no more!
Cold counsellor!” exclaimed the indignant king:
“My mercy shall be stripes, and bonds, and death;
Nor shall the vengeance linger. Haste; call up
The idle legions: I will issue forth,
And tame yon scum rebellious. Linger not:
The dawn is breaking; and the sun will rouse
The traitors, ere our swords.”

But, urgently,
Still Salamenes pleaded. “Pause awhile,
Lord of Assyria, and thine anger rule.
This one day, at the least, let warfare sleep;
The dead be buried; lest, if looking down
On such a ghastly field, thy soldiers' hearts
Should sink within them, and their arms be weak.
For peace this one day only do I sue:
What counsels on the morrow thou may take,
That to the morrow leave, and the cool thoughts
Which the new night may bring.”

His placid words
The king appeased. “Thou shalt prevail,” he said;
“Thy thoughts are wise: so be it: let the slain
This day be buried: also, let the foe
His dead inter, and fear not: in their camp
Bid heralds so proclaim. For what's to come,

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The morrow shall provide. But, let them heed!
For vengeance terrible hangs over them!”

Here ceased they. Salamenes to the queen
Went instantly: but on the couch once more
The king his tired limbs stretched; and slumber calm
His stormy spirit in oblivion wrapped.

Within the Median camp, meantime, deep sleep
O'erpowered the wearied host. The out-worn steed,—
Of the full rack, or juicy herbage, fresh
From the moist earth upshooting, heedless all,—
Slept motionless: the jaded sentinel,
His leaden limbs unable to uphold,
And his down-weighing eye-lids, dropped, and lay
Fast bound in sleepy fetters. But their chief,
Arbaces, slept not; nor the ardent priest:
Each on his couch, the present state, the past,
The future, pondering, lay; and found no rest.
At length Belesis rose: walked forth, and thus,
Toward the dark-mantled sky uplooking, spake.

“Ye shine not on us now, bright Ministers!
How have we sinned? Yet surely the dark clouds
Will pass; the glory of your countenance
Will come again upon us! Why complain?
Ye promised victory; but the day named not.
We are but tried,—our trust in your decree
How strong, to prove. Or, in our own weak arms,
The bow, and spear, the chariot, and the horse,
Too much confided we; and, in the fight,
Thought not upon our God? But He will look
With pity on our weakness; and His work
Not leave unfinished.”

To his troubled breast
Thus sought he to give ease. Arbaces, too—
With doubts, and fears, and hopes, perplexed—his thoughts
Within himself thus shaped: “By heaven, in truth,
Hath its great will unto the priest been shown?
Or, to the ruin of us all, by dreams,
And visions false, hath he been led astray?
Am I, in verity, to this great work

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By God appointed? or . . . . Yet, wherefore doubt?
We hoped for conquest; and were but repulsed;
Not vanquished; nor inglorious even in flight.
Were we not victors almost to the gates?
Were not our foes as four men unto one?
Yet, from the noon until the set of sun,
Drove we them not before us? Wherefore, then,
Should we be fearful? Will not myriads still
Our armies strengthen? but the tyrant's hosts
Melt off, like snow upon the mountain's top,
When summer cometh? May he not again
In battle meet me; not again to escape?
A second stroke . . . . But, wherefore do I boast?
Or why am I disquieted in soul?
Are not the nations in the hands of God?
And will He not do with them what is right?
Yet, not the less, ourselves, as seems the best,
In the great task must work. The captains, then,
To council will I summon; that the day,
Whate'er its business be, not unprepared,
Nor doubtful, may surprise us.”

Thus resolved,
At once he rose: and, rising, called aloud
To Abner, who reposed within the tent:
“Awake, my friend. To Abdolonimus speed,
And summon him to council instantly.
Rabsaris, also, bid, and Azareel:
Nor aged Almelon uninvited leave.
And, whom thou biddest, others let them bid;
That not one chief of note within our call
May be unsummoned. To the priest, myself
Will go; and, whom I pass, arouse.”

That said,
Their glittering arms both took, and issued forth.

Already up, Arbaces found the priest;
Beside his tent, upon the faded moon,
As through the cumbrous clouds she forced her way
Solemnly gazing. He the coming feet
Heard; and, the youthful Mede beholding, thus:

“Thy sight rejoiceth me, heroic prince;

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Watchful, as valiant! such the chosen of Heaven!
Fear not; for thou shalt yet thy foes subdue;
And work out all, which, in the eternal book,
The hand of God hath written. But, in truth,
Thee to arouse, myself ere long had sped,
Hadst thou not thus prevented: for, be sure,
Wise counsel and prompt act require we now:
Conjuncture dangerous, howsoe'er our arms
In battle strongest proved. For, to our sails
Though God the wind may give; yet, at the helm
If folly sit, our bark upon the rocks
Soon will be shattered. Strength the sword must wield;
Wisdom our counsels. Summon, then, the chiefs,
While yet 'tis night; and let their thoughts be told;
That, for the coming day, we may resolve.”

To him Arbaces: “Even for this, thy tent
Thus early sought I; for, all night mine eyes
Have never closed; nor have my thoughts found rest.
Come with me, then; and let us rouse the chiefs,
As yet unwakened. Not a few are called;
And now await us.” Speaking thus, they went:
The captains summoned to a council prompt;
And joyfully were heard.

In haste arrayed,
Within Arbaces' tent the warriors met.
A brazen tripod, standing in the midst,
Three naphtha lamps upheld, whence issued light
As of a watch-fire; on their brows uncleansed,
And armour, gory tokens of the fight
Displaying. Ghastly were their looks; yet hope,
And martial fire illumined them. First, their chief,
Forthstanding, spake.

“Brief respite from the toil
Of long and arduous contest have ye had,
Comrades beloved: yet, in your looks appear
Strength unabated; and untamed desire,
A second time in fight to prove, how weak
The tyrant's slavish myriads, 'gainst the few,
The noble few, who death to bonds prefer.
Bravely indeed ye fought; and victory won:

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Till, in an evil moment, from our hands
Was snatched the hard-won laurel: or, perchance,
Not evil; for with God the issue rests:
And, for a greater glory, may He not,
By this brief foil, prepare us? Be it so!
Yet, little hath the tyrant cause to boast:
And less shall have, if to ourselves we still
Faithful abide; and to the gods devout.
Our own strength, and our foe's, we now have proved;
And fear him not. What next shall be our aim;
Battle immediate; or a brief delay;
Or whatsoever else may wisdom prompt,
As best that we should do, or leave undone;
Imports us to resolve. His free thoughts, then,
Let each man speak.”

He ended; and, at once,
The Arabian king, forth starting, spake aloud.
“Battle I counsel; morning, noon, and night;
Unceasing, unrelaxing. Blow on blow,
While yet the metal glows, the armourer drives;
And bends it to his purpose: let him pause;
And quickly it defies him. Give no time;
No respite from their pantings: make them drop
The food untasted, and the brimming cup:
Scare them at council: break upon their sleep:
Turn night to day; and day to roaring hell;
Till they be crushed; or we, at least, be free.”

So he vehémently; and his dark eye,
And countenance swart, as with outbreaking fire,
Ardently glowed. To answer him, stood forth
Almelon; with astonishment, and fear,
Trembling and pale. His wild eyes round he cast;
And, his shrunk hands uplifting, thus began.
“Oh! madness thus to speak! dangerous to hear!
Infectious to your reason! for, like plague,
Frenzy from one man through a host will run;
Turning them all to furious maniacs!
Wisdom, with labor hard—by slow degrees—
Like to a single reaper in a field—
Oft wearied—pausing oft—and toiling still—

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Must win its difficult way: frenzy,—like flame
Blown by the wind, that, with destructive sweep,
Levels at once the whole,—its easy task
Swiftly performs; and with like fatal end.
Oh! then, beware the baneful pestilence!
Fury to combat; but to counsel bring
Deliberate thought; and speech well weighed, and cool:
For, wisest counsel—by intemperate words
Propounded, or discussed—to foolishness
Turns easily; as wine beneath the sun,—
Wholesome and sweet at first, and strong the heart
To cheer,—in griping sourness ends at last.
Be temperate, then: with an untroubled eye,
See all things: with a wary judgment, choose:
And, having chosen, with strong arm enact.
Reflect, that ye yourselves are men, 'gainst men
Contending; and not gods, your foes to crush.
Are they not tall as you? as swift? as strong?
With the same weapons armed; and fenced as well;
And, in their numbers, beyond all compare,
Mightier than ye are? wherefore scorn them, then?
To me, far wiser counsel seems it now,—
That we a second battle,—losing all
If that we lose,—so soon again risk not:
But to the mountains, rather, for a while,
Coolly retreat: there, our spent strength recruit:
There, safely biding, the incoming wait
Of thousands, many and strong, who unto us
Daily will haste,—while, every day, more weak,
In arms, and in resolve, will wax the foe.
If this be worth your waiting, ponder then:
But, whatsoever else ye may prefer;
Warily ever, and with cool minds judge.”

So he; and, while he spake, the Arabian king
Smiled on him; not displeased. But Azareel
His counsel liked not: and thus made reply.

“Unvanquished to retreat, is to call on
Whom soon we make our vanquisher. What, then!
Have we not met them once; and victors been

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From noon till sunset? wherefore not again;
If so be needful. Yet, I counsel not
To contest unprovoked. The better course,
If well I judge, were neither timorous flight,
Nor hesitating rest,—but a calm pause—
As when, with lifted shield, and sword in hand,
Men watch the antagonist. Meantime, missives swift
To the Bactrians may we send; who this first fight,—
Our few against the tyrant's numberless—
Shall trumpet to them; and within them wake
Thirst for like glory: that their arms with ours,—
So prosperous seeming,—they may haste to join;
Ere, all the laurels by us gathered first,
To them rest nought but shame, and our fixed hate;
Whose love they might have had. We, meantime, here,—
Nor seeking combat, nor evading it—
In quiet may abide, and wait the event;
Assured that, by this brief delay, our arms
Not weaker; nor the glory of our deeds
Dimmer will wax; but, every day, more strong
Our legions; and our fame more lustrous, grow.”

So Azareel; and many at his words
Loudly applauded. Then Rabsaris next,
Hoarse, and with feverish eye, stood forth, and said;
“Wisely and nobly are we counselled now:
But, meantime—lingering here in doubtful hope—
No other chance have we—to the same end—
And by a better, and a briefer path—
As surely leading? Crush the dragon's head;
And all his monstrous folds, and deadly sting—
After a few convulsive throes—will fall
Powerless. Even so, yon tyrant could we crush,—
What were his spears, his chariots, and his horse,
But the unwieldy dragon's train; death-struck,
Stingless, and strengthless? Send we to him, then,
Heralds, defiance bearing. Let them say,
‘Darest thou in single fight, with sword and lance,
Stand forth; and, in the view of both the hosts,

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On thy right hand, and on the aid of Heaven,
The issue put? that this great strife may cease;
And that the nations may in peace abide;
Free, or, as heretofore, thy vassals mean;
So fettered trebly!’ Surely, in his wrath,
Will he come forth; and by my arm shall fall:
For Heaven, your champion in this glorious cause,
Me will appoint; stern justice dealing best,
Even by the hand that most hath felt the wrong. . . .
Thou smilest Belesis; spake I foolishly?”

To him, with soothing tone, the priest: “Not wise,
As wonted, now thy words: nor, that I smile,
Let it offend thee: with a laugh of scorn,
The tyrant our defiance would deride.
And, if our cause upon one arm must rest;
Surely, Arbaces present, to none else
Could we the issue trust. Thy private wrongs
Greater than his; and thy resentment more;
Not, therefore, of the gods more favored thou;
That they thy weaker arm should make prevail,
More than his mightier. Confidence in Heaven,
Heaven doth approve; so, to our utmost, we,
With our best strength and knowledge, labor still:
But, on the foolish, or the slothful man,
Who, impiously, or idly, to the gods
His proper task transferreth,—Heaven doth frown.
Hear, now, what I advise: and, as thy words
I question—censure thou as freely mine.
'Tis in the clash of thoughts, that wisdom's spark
Is stricken out; which, else, like the bright fire
In cold dull flints, had slept: and, as one spark,
Rightly received, and nourished, this whole world
Might wrap in flame,—so, one immortal truth,
Outbreaking, may in every human mind;
To earth's last age, and to its farthest shores,
With undimm'd radiance shine. For this one day,
Wisest to me it seems, from war to rest:
The slain to bury, and the wounded aid:
Nor, on the morrow, would I, unprovoked,
The strife renew: but, numbering first our strength,

145

Would prayer, and sacrifice, to the great gods
Solemnly offer: then, in martial show,
For combat still prepared, abide the event.
From this hard-foughten, and right glorious field,
Retreat to make, our foes would animate,
Ourselves depress. Against superior force,—
Of whom, be sure, by this first conflict taught,
No few, their arms with ours will gladly join,—
Needless assault, with wearied troops, to make;
Unwise were, truly: and, the immortal gods,
For their past aid, unlauded, uninvoked
For aid to come,—the contest to renew,—
Unholy were, unthankful. Such, to me,
Our best path seemeth. Who can aught suggest,
Better devised; or that propounded now
Correct, or strengthen, him my friend I hold.”

He ceased; and much his counsel was approved:
Nor, for a time, seemed any man for speech
To address himself. Arbaces then stood forth;
And briefly thus: “Well have we been advised;
And may at once resolve. Yet, furthermore,
Three things I counsel. Of the mingled slain,
Those near the camp inter: but, for our dead,
Nigh to the city, them so far to seek,
Dangerous might prove: for their own sakes, the foe
Burial must give them. Next, at dawn of day,
Be numerous horsemen, far and near, sent forth;
Tidings of this great battle to proclaim;
And aid invite. Supplies for lengthened war;
Clothing, and food, oxen, and sheep, and wine;
All things, for strength or comfort, that we need,
Let them collect; and in the eastern hills,
Amid the caves and rocks impregnable,
Safely store up. Thence, when required, with ease
May we transport them: or, in conflict foiled,
Thither may hasten; and assault defy.
Lastly, thy counsel, noble Azareel!
Faithful and valiant! warmly do I join.
Haply this strife,—our few 'gainst all the strength

146

Of vast Assyria—not disastrous proved,—
Thoughts nobler in the Bactrian may bring forth;
That his dishonored steps he may re-tread;
Glory to seek, and 'vantage, with us leagued;
Rather than selfish ease, with infamy.”

So spake the prince; and all his words approved.
The council then dissolved; and to his tent
Went every leader: for the morning star
Not yet above the eastern mountains shone.

But now the sun arose; and all the sky
Filled with his glory: earth and seas rejoiced.
From their sound slumber sprang the warriors then:
Trumpets spake out; arms clashed; and coursers neighed:
To the fresh breeze, unnumbered gonfalons,
Of every nation, every tribe, the sign,
Shook out their gorgeous hues: above them all
Conspicuous far, the banner of the Sun,
High in the midst bright flaming.

From her gates
Now poured great Nineveh her myriads forth:
For plunder hoping, some; and, some, to gaze
Upon the gory field. With sorrowing hearts,
Among the slain went some, lost friends to seek:
Fathers, and mothers, for their absent sons:
Wives, for their husbands: for the youth betrothed,
The pale and shrinking virgin. Loud were heard
Weepings and sore lamentings. But the most
With joy went forth; the place of victory
With their own eyes to see: yet, as they looked,
Turned from the ghastly spectacle; and hid
Their faces, loathing.

To the Median camp
Rode heralds now, and cried, “Thus saith the king:
‘Lest that a plague should come upon the land,
This day be peace between us; that the dead
To earth may be committed. Let the sword
Until the morrow sleep.’”

“Peace be it then,”

147

Gladly Arbaces answered: “better still
If, for this day, the word had been for aye.”

So zealously both hosts their toil pursued;
The slain interring: nor, till set the sun,
Their task accomplished. Their worn bodies then
From soil they washed: with food and generous wines,
Their strength restored: and hasted to repose.

148

BOOK THE EIGHTH.

On the next morrow, early, rose the king;
And sat upon his throne: at his right hand,
The heroic queen: and, all for battle dight,
Before him, the chief captains of the host.
Then thus the monarch: “Our loved queen to grace,—
Whose gentle counsel our stern wrath controls,—
From yon rebellious we awhile withhold
Punishment due: and from their paths, misled,
With words of kindness to invite them back,
Disdain not. To their camp, with heralds, then,
A chosen captain straightway will we send:
And, when in full assembly he shall stand
Of their chief leaders, thus let him proclaim:
‘The king is merciful, and slow to wrath:
Mock not his pity; lest, too late, ye rue,
When on your heads the vengeance hath been sent,
That must destroy you. Lay your arms aside;
Humbly submit yourselves; unto the king
Your crime confess; and his forgiveness pray;
Then will he pardon: yea, to every man
That on the first day cometh, shall be given
A shekel of fine gold: and unto him
Shall no tongue say “thus didst thou.” Ponder then:
Three days the king doth grant you: on the fourth,
If ye repent not, ye shall surely die.’
Thus be it spoken to them. If they hear,
Submissive; and their arms at once throw down;

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Then, of a truth, it shall be well for them:
Or, if they say, ‘yet three days let us rest,
The king's grace to consider;’ haply then,
It also may be well: but, if my words
They should deride, and my compassion slight;
Then, let our messenger again stand forth,
And cry aloud, ‘Ye are cast off, and lost!
Your flesh to vultures; to wild dogs your bones,
Shall be thrown out; and on your names a hiss
Shall be among the nations.’ Furthermore,
Even to the traitors' faces, let him cry:
‘To him that shall Arbaces put to death,
Five hundred golden talents shall be given:
And unto him that shall Belesis slay,
Of gold five hundred talents: but, to him
That, living, to the king shall bring them bound;
For each a thousand talents shall be given:
And him the king shall honor; and shall place
Among the great and mighty of the land.’”

The monarch ended; and, from all that heard,
Murmured applauses rose. Before the rest
Stood Salamenes then; bowed low, and spake.
“Mercy, and wisdom, both, O king of kings,
In this thy counsel shine: and, to thy will,
May the great gods our enemies' stubborn hearts
Gently dispose! But, if thy grace they scorn,—
Whom may we hope to find, so strong of heart,
So reckless of his life, that, fearlessly,
Before the rebel leaders he would stand,
And trumpet forth their doom? Assuredly,
Who so should speak, would in that instant die!”

Scarce had he ended, when, before the king,
Nebaioth came; bowed low, and promptly thus:
“Whom ye would find, O king of kings, is here.
I, at thy bidding, fearlessly will stand
In presence of thy foes; and to their teeth,
If so be needed, their death-doom denounce.
There, as before this throne, the hand of God
Alike will guard me: nor their banded strength,
Till He permit, this breath of life can stop.

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But more I hope, that, by thy sufferance moved,
Submissly they may hearken, and obey.”

To him the king, upstarting from his throne,
Warmly thus answered: “Brave, and faithful! go!
Thou be my messenger, and none but thou.
Unharmed return; and whatsoe'er thou ask,
It shall be given unto thee: if thou fall,
Avengement terrible shall honor thee;
And thy renown shall live. Meantime, this sword
Gird on thy loins; that whoso thereon looks
May say, ‘thus doth the king the valiant love.’”

So speaking, from his side the glittering belt,
And sword, gem-sheathed, Sardanapalus took,
And to Nebaioth gave. Then thus again:
“Let now the troops be gathered on the plain;
That ye may number them. Of food, and wine,
See that they lack not. When the feast is spread,
Then shall the king go forth upon the field;
And eat and drink among them. After that,
Let every man for battle stand prepared:
So, if the rebel still our mercy scorn,
Like fire from heaven our vengeance may be sent;
And utterly consume them. Therefore thou,
Nebaioth, till for onset we prepare,
Go not among them.” Speaking thus, at once
The monarch rose; and with the queen retired.

Within the Median camp, meantime, all hearts
With boundless hope were filled. Before the sun,
The army rose; nor, to the glorious god,
The silent prayer, and choral hymn forgot:
Then—thirst and hunger having well assuaged—
In bright array of battle waiting stood:
Dubious awhile—when from the gates poured out
The armëd squadrons—if for martial show,
Or combat, issuing. But, their aim at length
Not doubtfully discerning—their own strength
They, too, 'gan number. Each before its chief,
The legions passed; chariots, and horse, and foot;
In slow and silent march. In midst of all,
Arbaces, and the priest, from every chief

151

The numbers heard: and, last, the total summed.
Three hundred, three score thousand fighting men,
Their strength was. With loud voice, and trumpet clang,
Heralds proclaimed it; and all hearts were glad.
Then, to the priest, Arbaces: “Lo, the sun
In mid heaven stands, and not a breeze doth stir:
Lest, with this fervent heat oppressed and faint,
In mood impatient should the soldiers wait,—
Till half way down the sky his course be run,—
As safely may we, nor incursion dread,—
Let us delay the sacrifice: meantime,
Beneath their tents, food and refreshing rest,
Partaking,—with new vigour will they rise;
For sacred rites prepared, or instant war.”

His words the priest approved: and heralds soon
Through all the camp proclaimed them. 'Neath his tent,
Or under shadow of umbrageous tree,
Pleasanter refuge, every soldier then,
Food, and repose as grateful, sought, and found.

But, when the sultry hours were past; uprose,
Stirred by the trumpets, all the bright array:
And round the place of sacrifice, close ranked,
In silence stood, expecting. Midst of all,
An ample space remained: the altar there,
The victim, and the priests. Apart, yet nigh,
Arbaces, with his chosen captains stood,
Bareheaded all, and silent. To the heavens
His hands upraising, then Belesis prayed.

“Almighty Power! in the abyss of space,
Wherever thronëd, inaccessible!
Omnipotent unknown! of all that is,
Or was, or yet shall be, Creator sole!
Thee, Infinite, above all thought supreme,
Tremendous Name! our prayers may not invoke!
But unto you, His flaming ministers;
Interpreters, and Mediators mild;
To You, in prayer, and praise, by night, and day,
Our voices we uplift: oh! hear us now!

152

Gods of the battle! ye did strengthen us;
Ye on our side did combat: in the face
Of our proud adversaries did ye cast
Your tempests, lightnings, and great thunderings;
That in confusion horrible they fled,
Even to their gates. But there—All-ruling Powers,
Seemed ye to frown upon us: there, our foes
Sustaining, backward drove us in amaze:
Triumph to them; yet unto us not shame;
For utterly even then ye left us not.
But, whether unto us it evil be,
Or whether it be good; to your decrees,
Merciful alway, wise, and just, we bow.
If, over-proud, in our own valour we
Too much have trusted; and your wrath awaked;
Remember us, that we are but of clay;
Feeble and erring: Oh forgive us, then!
And underneath your banners, yet once more;
Strong in your strength, triumphant lead us on!”

So prayed he fervently: and all that heard,
In spirit with him prayed. With customed rites,
The spotless beast, an offering to the gods
Well pleasing deemed, then slew they; and with hymns
The solemn act concluded. To the sky
Went up the voices of the multitude.

Scarce had they ended, when, beyond the rear,
A trumpet-blast was heard. All turned—and lo!
Two heralds; and, behind them, on a steed
Milk white, a stately warrior, in rich arms,
That shone like fire. Amid the opening throng,
Slowly he rode. His countenance was pale;
But calm, and fearless. Upon either hand,
Passing, his firm bright eye he cast: but word
Spake not; nor sign of greeting gave, or met.
Like some nice dame that o'er the morning dew
Walks tip-toe,—his proud courser, foot by foot
Airily lifting, daintily let drop.
Him, yet far off, Arbaces knew; and thus
With loud voice cried: “Let not a man go hence:

153

Nebaioth comes; a message from the king,
If right I augur, bearing. Silent, then;
That, when his words we shall have heard, to all
They may be told; and every one may judge.”

Thus he; and his command, from rank to rank,
Rapidly circling, flew; and was obeyed.

Nigh the expecting chiefs, at length, arrived,—
Alighting from his steed, with firm, slow step,
Toward them the Assyrian walked; from man to man,
Looks changeful casting,—wrathful now, now sad.
Within a glittering belt, his better arm,
Unhealed and stiff, painful and strengthless, hung:
His left extending then, around the chiefs
His eyes he cast; and, with mild tone, began.

“Again I stand before you: not again,
Oh! not again unheeded let me go!
The king is merciful, and loth to strike:
Mock not his sufferance; lest the vengeance fall,
And ye too late repent! One day of strife,
One bloody day, hath past; and yet ye live:
But, take not to your souls the flattering hope,
That yet another, and another day,
Audacious ye may stand; and still escape
Destruction merited. The hand of God
Once hath in pity spared you; but, beware!
The violated majesty of kings,
He, at the last, will surely vindicate!
Hear now the message of the earth's dread lord;
And hear it not in vain. Lay down your arms;
With full submission your great crime confess;
And his forgiveness beg,—then will he hear,
And pardon; and your sins shall be forgot.
Yea, unto all that this day shall return—
To every man—a shekel of fine gold
Shall be delivered; and to him no tongue
Shall say, ‘thus didst thou!’ Three days doth the king
Bid you consider: but, upon the fourth,
If ye repent not, ye shall surely die!

154

Oh! wisely ponder, then; that this great ill
May pass away; and that the lifted sword,
Into the scabbard, bloodless, may return!”

So he; with looks imploring, as with words;
And unto him Arbaces thus replied.

“Not scornfully thy message have we heard,
Nebaioth; nor thy zeal with anger met;
High though thy words; and wisdom of the fool
In us importing. Mad indeed were we;
Life, fame, lands, children, wives, and parents dear,
All on this act to peril; yet, confess,
On the first question,—uncompelled, nay strong
For contest; and already victors once
From noon till evening,—that the thing we sought,
Was folly, guilt; by prayer and penitence,
And abject humbleness to be atoned.
No! ere the sword was drawn . . . . But, idle now
All strife of tongues: us, force alone can bow
Again beneath the oppressor: nor, with words,
Him from his purpose can we hope to move.
Yet, lest from me, and not the host at large,
Seem the reply,—thy message unto all
Shall be proclaimed; and from their mouths alone
Take thou the answer.”

Heralds then he called;
And bade them the king's proffer to proclaim;

“And every man who thereto doth incline,
Unfearing, from the rest let him go forth;
For not a hand shall touch him.”

With raised voice,
These words the heralds soon made known to all:
Yet, of those myriads, went forth not one man.
Then, to Nebaioth, thus Belesis spake.

“Behold thine answer! Wilt thou longer doubt?
Or, to seduce us to the yoke again,
Hast thou yet sweeter eloquence? But no!
Trust me, good youth, the flowers that he would strew,
Tempt not our feet above the tyrant's pits:
The gold-drops will not make us hug the snake;

155

Knowing his poisoned fangs. Even thou, may be,
Long wilt not 'scape his venom.”

On his speech
Breaking, with lowering brow, Nebaioth cried;
“Thy venom, priest, these myriads have not 'scaped;
Death-doomed, I fear: but not to thee again
The words of peace I speak. On you, the chiefs
Of this bad league; Arbaces, even on thee,
By him seduced; on you once more I call:
Oh! I conjure you, ere the moment pass,
Irrevocable, pause! Yet three days' space,
The king in mercy gives you—Mock me not
With lips of scorn; but hearken to my words.
In mercy, still I say, three days the king,
For thought, and for repentance, granteth you:
Slight not his offer: o'er this dangerous flood
If go ye will; yet, headlong to your fate,
Reckless, and blind, and deaf, oh do not leap!
Pause on the shore awhile, and weigh the attempt.
Say but, ‘we will consider; yet three days
We will take counsel;’ haply, then, the gods
Your hearts may soften; and to better things
Your thoughts dispose; that this great curse may pass;
And that the land with blood may not be drunk.”

Imploringly he spake; with tearful eyes
Looking to all; but to Arbaces most.
He, for reply, after brief silence, now
Addressed himself; when thus the Arabian king,
With fierce eye, and swift step, advancing, spake.

“Nebaioth, brave and faithful as thou art;
Though in unworthy cause; honor from us,
Thou hast, and thanks: with this content, retire.
Feeble thy words our firm resolve to shake;
By years of thought and suffering made strong;
And farther conference idle. To thy king,
Say, we his wily offer, and himself,
Hold equally in scorn; fair both, and false.
Bid him the fetters of the nations loose;
And from our hands the bloodless sword will drop:

156

But, bear him, else, our unrelenting hate;
Defiance to the death. Three days, sayst thou,
His mercy grants? Go—tell him our revenge
Three moments doth disdain: for every hour
'Twixt this, and his sure punishment, to us
Counts as a lingering age. Even as I say,
Say thou to him; nor this sour medicine,
With honied words make sweet.”

Him, as he spake,
Sternly Nebaioth eyed: and, for reply,
Toward him two steps advancing, stood prepared.
His face death-pale; his quivering lip; his eyes
Fire flashing, and his heaving chest—the storm
Gathering within him marked. Arbaces saw;
And, to prevent the outbreak, with mild tone,
Thus counselled him: “Thine anger yet restrain;
Provoked though sharply; nor, with useless strife
Of words, thy spirit vex. To thy demand,
Gentle and kind, again from all the host
Reply shall come; and, whatsoe'er it be,
Retire thou then content.”

Thus having said,
The heralds he bespake: “Yet once again
Go ye among the soldiers, and cry out;
‘What to Assyria's king will ye reply?
Are ye resolved? or would ye yet three days
Ponder his offer? Will ye truce, or war?”

Still, as from nation unto nation flew
The heralds—rose alike the terrible shout,
“War! War, to the death!”

Silent Nebaioth stood:
Pallid his countenance; stern, yet sorrowful.
But, when the tumult ceased, his hand he raised,
Attention claiming, and with loud voice said.
“Mercy ye scorn; and mercy shall not have!
Take, then, the war ye seek; outcast, and lost!
Your flesh to vultures; to wild dogs your bones,
Shall be cast forth; and on your names a hiss
Shall be among the nations! Hear me still;
For, as the king hath spoken, will I speak,

157

And fear not; hear me! Chiefly thou, dark priest,
And thou, Arbaces, hear! prime traitors, both:
First to rebel; the first for vengeance marked:
Hear, all ye nations, hear! Thus saith the king.
‘To him that shall Arbaces put to death,
Five hundred golden talents shall be given:
And unto him that shall Belesis slay,
Of gold five hundred talents: but, to him
That, living, to the king shall bring them bound;
For each, a thousand talents shall be given:
And him the king will honor; and will place
Among the great and mighty of the land!’
Thus saith the king: may the king live for ever!”

As when, at sultry noon, the lurid clouds,
Hard, motionless, and silent, threatening hang;
No wind is felt, and not a sound is heard:
If then his bolt—firing at once all heaven—
The Thunderer hurls,—out roars the awful peal;
Cloud calls to cloud; air quivers, and earth shakes,—
Even so, dark lowering, with amazement mute,
His vehement words to hear, the multitude
Stood motionless; even so, at once out burst,
On that dead stillness, the tremendous din.
A thousand swords leaped forth; ten thousand tongues,
With maddest fury, for the Assyrian's blood
Called out. Like waters that their mounds have burst,
In rushed the vengeful throng. Nebaioth saw;
Thought death approaching; and was proud to die.

But, as when loudest roars the hurricane;
When pines bow down, and stubborn oaks are rent;
With yet a louder peal the thunder-god
From the opening cloud doth call,—so, towering high
O'er the vile clamor, rang the terrible voice
Of their wrath-kindled leader. From the sheath,
Like sun-glance, flashed his sword; his guarding shield
Before Nebaioth blazed. “Back! back!” he cried;
“The dastard who dares touch him, dies! Back! back!”
Belesis, too, and Abdolonimus,
And every captain, from their leader's fire
The generous fervour catching, called aloud,

158

And bade the soldiers back. Wild hubbub reigned.
Like ravenous wolves, whom, from their slaughtered prey,
The lion drives—so raged the maddened throng.
But the death-threatening weapon of their chief,
His angry aspect, and air-shaking voice,
Into their hearts struck terror. When, at length,
The storm was sinking; in the sheath his sword
Arbaces thrust; and to the heralds said:
“Proclaim ye silence now, that all may hear:
And, when there shall be stillness, take with you
The heralds of the king; that unto all
They may his greatness show; but let no man
His hand uplift to harm them: for, if God
In our great enterprise do lead us on,
What arm can touch us? Surely, shame and guilt
On all had fallen, had this brave man been slain!”

As he commanded, so did they proclaim:
And, when the noise was hushed, and, with clear voice,
The Assyrian heralds throughout all the host
The monarch's words had spoken,—and with hoots
And hisses had been answered,—thus again
Arbaces, to Nebaioth turning, said.
“What thou hast seen, and heard, unto the king
Tell faithfully: so, shall our trust in Heaven,
And in ourselves, to all be manifest:
And, of his strength, and ours, in juster scales
He may the issue weigh. But he is proud,
Fierce, headstrong, boastful; nor will wisdom learn,
Nor charity, nor justice; but more deep
In sin and folly, blindly will go on;
And in the foul flood perish! On his head,
As justly might not we the blood-price set?
That bid him ponder. For thyself, one word
Of counsel lastly hear. With speech o'erbold,
Twice our impetuous soldiers hast thou chafed:
The third time tempt them not; lest not again,
Unharmed thou leave us: nay, I warn thee, now,
In haste to go; for, like to tigers caged,
Fiercely they glare upon thee.”

159

Speaking thus,
Nor time for answer leaving, toward his horse
He led Nebaioth; and two heralds charged,
Untouched, from out the press to lead him forth:
Then with Belesis and the Arabian king
Briefly conferred; and to the captains cried.

“Gather ye now your squadrons in array;
Lest, though the day declines, the furious king
May come against us.” At the word, outspake
The signal-trumpets; gonfalons on high
Were lifted; and for combat all prepared.

So they. Meantime, obedient to command,
Their numbers also the Assyrians told:
Ten times a hundred thousand was their strength.

Proudly throughout the camp the monarch rode,
That every eye might see him; from his car
Alighted then; and, while the soldiers sat
Rejoicing at the feast, he, too, sat down;
And ate, and drank before them: and his heart
Gloried within him. Yet, the warning words
Of the slain prophet were not all forgot;
And, of the grape-juice, with a sparing hand
He tasted. In array of battle, soon,
The troops were marshalled; and expectant stood.
But, when Nebaioth came; and, to the king,
With his chief captains, all that he had seen
And heard, made known; great was the monarch's wrath.
Upstarting in his chariot, with harsh voice,
He shouted, “To the battle!” At the word,
From all the host went up exultant cries:
Standards were shaken; trumpets blown; and shields
With deafening clangor smitten. But, his voice,
When ceased the uproar, Salamenes raised;
And spake unto the king: “Behold, the day
Is far declined; the enemy prepared:
Go not to combat now; since darkness soon
Must shroud the rebel, and thy vengeance mock:
But, till the morning wait; if the fourth morn
Better it seem not, even now, to abide;

160

For, cool thoughts may a wise submission teach,
More easily, than war's hot argument.”

Him interrupted the indignant king:
“Womanish counsel! The strong arm alone
Can teach submission: they'll obedient be
In fetters only; or the stirless grave!
But, well thou bid'st me till the morrow wait;
That hungry vengeance without check may feed,
And riot in the feast. Let heralds, then,
Silence command, that every man may hear;
And, when there shall be stillness, let them, first,
On the prime traitors' heads the price proclaim;
Even as Nebaioth, in the rebel camp,
Already hath proclaimed it. Furthermore,
Bid them cry out and say, ‘The king to-night
Holds back his vengeance; lest the rebel 'scape:
But, on the morrow, even at the dawn,
Shall it be loosed: let, therefore, every man
Beneath his tent at sunset go to rest:
Let him his food and arms have nigh at hand;
That vigorous he may rise; and, for the fight,
Refreshed, and joyful.’”

As the monarch bade,
So Salamenes to the heralds spake;
They unto all the camp; and were obeyed.

Not to the city went the king that night;
But, 'neath a tent of purple, starred with gold,
Burning for vengeance, lay. A hundred youths,
The chosen of his guard, in costliest arms,
Kept watch around him.

With the setting sun,
For instant summons all prepared, the Medes
To their repose went also. On the field;
But far apart; so slept the hostile hosts:
And night and silence overshadowed them.

161

BOOK THE NINTH.

All night in slumber deep the armies lay:
But, while the eastern sky with first faint beam
Yet dimly reddened; in both camps arose
The stir of war preparing: arms were donned;
Chariots in order set; and neighing steeds
In gleaming mail caparisoned. Anon,
Eager for onset, the Assyrian king
Bade sound the signal: and, in firm array,
His mighty force moved on.

The Medes, meantime,
For combat harnessed, toward the kindling east
In reverence looking, yet awhile stood mute;
The god to wait, whose tresses, flaming bright,
Above the horizon's brim already waved.
But, when his burning forehead he 'gan lift,
Then every knee was bent; and every voice,
With softened tone, in words like these, began:
“Glorious and mighty God! hear thou our prayer!
Give to our arms the victory; for our cause
Is righteous: but, this enemy accursed,
Let him before the terrors of thine eye
Be withered utterly.” Such prayer apart
Each whispered. Like the breath of the soft wind,
That in the forest depths the sear leaves shakes;
Murmured the voice of that great multitude.

Breaking upon it with air-shivering blast,—
Thousands together, as from one vast mouth,—
Blared out the Assyrian trumpets. To their feet

162

Sprang then the Medes; and from the throats of brass
Sent the quick answer; proudly flinging back
Mortal defiance. That endured not long
In patience the hot king. From rank to rank,
In his bright chariot flying like the wind;
Vehémently he cried and urged them on:
“Go to the battle! trample them as dust!
As in a wine-press tread them; that their blood,
Like red wine, may gush forth beneath your feet!”

So he incessantly; and with his words
To hottest fury stirred them. But the Medes,—
Their tents all struck; their oxen, camels, wains,
Far in the rear, for sudden march prepared,—
Firmly stood waiting: for Arbaces thus
Spake to the captains nigh: “Behold ye not
With what fierce wrath inflamed the foe comes on?
Yet, let us not midway to meet him go:
But here abide; the toil of march, so far,
To him resigning; somewhat of his strength,
If not his rage, thus haply to subdue.
Abiding here, vantage we have beside:
For, if o'ercome, unto the mountain holds
Shall we be nigher; if victorious,
The farther from his sheltering walls our foe.”

Thus having said, amid the ranks he rode,
And, with his voice and look, into their hearts
Valour infused, and ardor for the fight.

So stood they waiting; and beheld afar,
Shining like fire beneath the slanting rays,
The coming of the vast Assyrian force,
Gorgeously dreadful. Like a sea of fire,
O'er the wide plain it rolled; rolled rapidly;
Like an o'erflooding ocean. High upraised,
Thousands of ensigns to and fro were waved;
And, from ten thousand martial instruments,
Inspiring sounds arose. That sight, unawed,
The Medes beheld: yet many hearts beat quick;
And many a thought of home far off awoke;
Of children, anxious wife, or maid beloved,
Or parent weak in age.

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But, nigher now,
Exulting in their strength, the dazzling ranks
Came onward; loudly vaunting, on they came.
First in the van, with helms and breastplates bright,
Of burnished brass—were archers, that bore swords;
And spearmen, sheathed in brass. A hundred deep,
Close thronged—all treading as one man, came these.
Behind were horsemen; man and steed alike
Flaming in brass; their captains, in rich mail
Of steel and gold; with helmets burnished bright,
And plumes of every hue. From space to space,—
Amid the horsemen mingled; yet apart,
Orderly ranked—bright flaming chariots came,
Iron, or brass; the steeds in mail of brass,
Glorious to look upon: on either hand,
Beyond the archers and the spearmen far,
Like glittering wings, they stretched. A space behind,
An arrow-flight, appeared; then squadrons dense,
In mail complete, that sword and buckler bore:
Spearmen; and those that battle-axe, or mace
Terrific, wielded: upon either flank,
Archers and slingers: and again, behind,
Chariots and horsemen,—that the multitude,
Innumerous as the ocean-waves appeared.

Amid the foremost cars, conspicuous most,
Shone the great chariot of Assyria's king.
Like that intensest glory, on the waves
Rolling in light, where the Day-god himself
His quivering image prints,—so, 'mid that throng,
He, with the thousand of his royal guard,
Above their radiance, dazzling radiant, flamed.

But when, approaching now, the Medes he saw
Motionless still, as not on conflict bent;
Inly he marvelled: and the signal gave
The advance to stay. To Salamenes then,
Who in a chariot at his right hand rode,
Doubtfully thus he spake: “What means the foe?
Why comes he not to combat? Fears he, then?
Or in some snare to lure us doth he hope?”

That said; nor answer waiting; thus in haste

164

A herald he bespake; “Go forth, and cry,
‘Why come ye not to meet us? Do ye fear?
Or will ye brave the battle? But, submit:
Fling down your insolent arms; and pardon sue;
Or, like the sand shall ye be trodden down.’”

The herald heard, and went. His swift approach
Arbaces marked; and, with the priest, advanced.
The summons heard, thus firmly he replied.
“Say to the king, we fear not, nor will yield—
His strength well knowing, and our own. Nor slow
To battle will he find us; other means
Should he disdain. If, by few peaceful words,
We might save seas of blood—surely accursed
Were both, such good rejecting! Will the king,—
Two chosen captains bringing,—in the space
'Twixt either van, for peaceful conference,
Of ours three also meet? So, haply, words,
Better than swords, may 'twixt us arbitrate.”

The herald bowed, and went. Belesis then,
Displeased and doubtful, to his comrade thus:
“Not wise in this I deem thee. Idle all,
And vain the attempt, yon haughty tyrant's will
By words to bend! As easily thy breath
Might force the agëd oak to bow the knee,
And quiver like a reed. Nor will our troops,
Us doubtful thus beholding, aught infer
But fear in us; and of themselves distrust:
Dire presage! Yet, the thing by Heaven decreed,
Man vainly strives to avert. Thy words of peace
The king will scorn; and blindly to his doom
Go onward; for the day is nigh at hand,
When the oppressor shall become as chaff
Before the tempest; and the haughty walls,
As cinders in the furnace.”

To these words
Arbaces answered: “That which God foredooms,
Surely must come to pass; but, through what means,
He solely can direct. With fire and sword
Alone, He worketh not; nor warrior's strength
Needeth His will to do. If words of peace

165

May free the nations; let the hateful steel
Rust in the scabbard! If to sword and spear
The task hath been appointed,—for the work
Not less shall we be ready. In God's hands,
The feeble instruments alone are we;
And, as He wills, must move.”

With words like these,
The prophet he appeased. Before the king,
Meantime, the herald stood; and trembling spake.
Frowning, the monarch heard, and cried,—“Begone!
Say to the insolent rebel, ‘Once again,
Once only, doth the king in pity speak.
Your words he will not hearken: bow to earth,
And in the dust his clemency implore;
Else, will he send the swift destruction forth;
And every man shall perish.’”

With calm voice,
Then Salamenes thus: “The chance of war
Is doubtful ever. In this awful pause,
Haply their hearts may soften; and to words,
Calmly and wisely urged, they may give heed.
Let then the king a little while forbear;
While I, alone, or with some chosen chief,
Brief conference with them hold. If, obdurate,
They will not listen; theirs alone the guilt!
Theirs be the punishment!”

To him the king:
“Go then: and take with thee whomso thou wilt.
But guard 'gainst treachery: and linger not:
For, as I live, they will my mercy scorn;
And shall the wrath, suspended, heavier feel.”

Well pleased, the noble prince amid the ranks
Passed in his chariot; and Nebaioth called.
The summons, with glad heart Nebaioth heard,
And to the car ascended. Swiftly then,
With heralds at their side, they took their way.

Arriving, Salamenes thus the first,
In mild tone, spake.

“With rebels to confer,
Assyria's monarch comes not: nor your hope,

166

Though proud, so high could soar. In mercy, yet
Once more, once only, doth he call on you;
Free pardon offering; so your impious arms
Ye will abandon, and forgiveness beg:
Else, will suspended ruin be let loose;
And mercy quite shut out!”

With face inflamed,
To answer him Belesis started up;
But, him preventing, first Arbaces thus:
“Justice, not mercy, prince, do we demand;
And can enforce: his threats we hold in scorn.
Nor, that on equal terms of conference
To meet us he should come, so proudly bold
The thought we deem; since, in the battle-field,
Our equal scarce he proved. Slight hope can be
From strife of tongues, when deadlier arguments
Are ready to convince: nay, false himself,
Our faith perchance he doubts, and fears to come:
Yet, with all else than him, were words but vain:
Stay ye, then, in the camp, my hostages;
And unto him will I myself go forth;
And this dull burning quench; or stir to flame.
If this content you, then a herald send;
And let the king decide.”

With joy, his words
The Assyrians heard; and Salamenes thus
Made answer: “Wise and noble, gallant prince!
In this thing dost thou show; and highest praise
From all deservest; and wilt have. Ourselves,
The fittest heralds, to the king will speed;
Nor to return be slow: but ye, the while,
Upon the fearful chance of warfare think;
And wisdom learn, though late.”

That said, at once
The steeds he turned; and flew along the plain.
But, still displeased, Belesis shook the head,
His friend reproving. From their chariots, then,
Both 'lighted; and, close standing, in low tone,
Conferred on what might chance—evil, or good,—
And, if the worst, on what best remedy were.

167

Meantime, the peaceful message to the king
The noble heralds bore; and soon returned.
Arriving, from the chariot they leaped down;
And Salamenes thus: “The king thy words
Will hearken: go, and fear not: by his throne,
And by Assyria's gods, he hath made oath,
That no man's hand shall touch thee. We, the while,
Thy hostages remain: and, as to thee,
Evil, or good is done, so, unto us,
Be good, or evil, also!”

Heralds then
Arbaces summoned: briefly with the priest
Apart discoursed; and to his chariot sprang.

But horsemen instantly Belesis called;
And to the Arabian king, who on the left,
Far off, his station held, thus bade them say:
“Arbaces to Assyria's king is gone:
Should ill befall him, over all the host,
Thee hath he named the captain. Hasten then;
That counsel prompt, if needful, we may take.”

These things beholding, in the Medes arose
Unquiet thoughts; for, of their chief's return,
Inly they doubted: nor their fears aloud
To tell, spared many. But, with aspect calm,
From rank to rank Belesis rode; with words,
And smiles, their hearts emboldening.

Meantime,
The coming of their enemy renowned,
Through all the Assyrian squadrons was made known:
And death the doom proclaimed on him whose hand
Against him should be lifted. Every eye,
To look on him was greedy; so his deeds
Had made him glorious; every tongue was mute.

Upon a gentle mound; o'er all the plain
Conspicuous; in his chariot sat the king.
Yet now on him looked none. The very chiefs
Attendant on him—forms forgetting quite—
Full in the chariot's front went hastily:
There, closely gathered,—each upon his spear
Resting the hand,—for the illustrious Mede,

168

With straining eyes peered out; while distant yet,
Eager to spy him. Even the king himself,
Maugre his pride, a furtive glance oft cast,
The approach awaiting.

Soon, a glittering car
Outshooting from the hostile ranks was seen.
Like to a meteor o'er a swampy vale,
Swiftly and smoothly gliding, on it burned.
A hum of expectation, through the host,
As it drew near, arose; and every eye
To view the heroic Mede strained anxiously.
Him to conduct, the attendant heralds then
Went forth; and, as they went, their trumpets blew.

Arrived, from out his car Arbaces leaped;
And through the gazing ranks,—with steadfast brow,
And lightning eye, to this side, and to that,
Alternate glancing,—walked. In his right hand,
A ponderous lance he bore: on his left arm,
The golden shield: the sword was on his thigh.
Mighty and dreadless as a battle-god,
To every eye he seemed. His ardent face,
On the beholder turned, like fire shone out;
Fearfully beautiful. From far beheld,
Above the glittering ranks his nodding plume,
Like some bright sea-bird on the sparkling waves,
Majestically sailed. Him, drawing nigh,
The king beheld; and, rising in him, felt
Envy, and admiration; not with dread
Mysterious quite unmixed; though unconfessed;
And quickly shaken off. But anger, soon,
And fierce disdain, within his soul awoke;
As, in his presence now, all unabashed,
With calm imperial look, the lofty Mede
To him, as to an equal, coldly bowed;
And to his chiefs not less; his rapid eye
Glancing on all. With stern voice, and dark brow,
Him thus the king bespake:

“With such a front
Audacious, in the presence of thy king
Daring to stand—ill only canst thou bring;

169

And my great clemency, unmerited,
On ingrate vassals hath been cast away.
But better lesson, doubtless, thy new school
Hath taught thee, than the senseless reverence,
In the antique time, by fools to monarchs paid.
An humble suitor, even in the dust
Forgiveness begging, looked I to behold.
Thine insolent demeanour, chastisement,
Signal and swift, deserves; but, by my throne,
And by the Gods above us, have I sworn,
Untouched that hither thou shouldst come and go:
Nor shall my oath be vain. What thou wouldst say,
Speak then; but briefly: for thy countenance,
A sure interpreter, proclaims thee still
Rebel at heart, and conference but a mock.”

So he, incensed; and thus the Mede replied:
“Falsely expecting, thou the more art chafed:
Hoping a slave, the less canst equal brook:
For, when our swords in equal conflict met,
Became we also equals. Yet, if vain
Our conference prove—not justly unto me
The fault shall be imputed: for, in peace
Come I to speak; and patiently to hear.
But, at thy feet to fall, and pardon sue—
Expect not to behold me: we are strong;
For strife prepared; and confident in Heaven.
Yet, such a bloody torrent to prevent
As this day threats to slake the thirsty earth;
Glad should we be; so not a greater ill
The purchased good bring on us. Peace we seek;
And life we love: but honorable death
Far rather choose, than life in abject bonds.
King of Assyria! why should every knee
Of all the nations bow before thy throne?
Why must their riches in thy chests be poured?
Why must their sons thy trembling bondsmen be?
For thee alone were women formed so fair?
For thee our wives beloved, our maids betrothed,
Must we abandon? for thy abject slaves,
Solely were we created? No! the cry

170

Of millions is gone upward: God hath heard:
And from their bondage will deliver them.
How sayst thou then? By the strong arm alone
Shall this be compassed? or, their iron bonds
Wilt thou thyself unloose; and say, ‘be free’?
We are not few; nor fearful: and our strength
In conflict, once already hast thou proved.
Our own deliverance if our swords work out;
Surely thy power will perish utterly:
Thy name will be a mockery evermore:
Thy throne and kingdom from thee will be rent:
Thy gorgeous city in the flames expire:
And not one stone remain, in after times
To say, ‘here stood imperial Nineveh!’
But, hearken to me now; and bow thy heart:
Be wisely just; and on a powerful throne
Still mayst thou sit; and threatening fate avert.
Swear thou to us; by air, and earth, and sea;
By heaven above, and by the realms beneath;
By every ruling star; and by the God
Who them, and all created things, doth rule,—
By these, in presence of thy people swear;
That every land beneath thy yoke, erst free,
Henceforth from every fetter shall be freed:
Send to their homes thy tributary hosts:
Thy satraps, iron-sceptred, summon back:
Our wives, and daughters, to our arms restore:
And, from thy treasures,—of that boundless wealth,
During long ages from the nations wrung,—
To each but one year's tribute render back,—
Thus do; and we our bloodless swords will sheathe;
And every man unto his home return.”

Scarce had he ended, when the king,—his rage
No longer bridling,—in his car upsprang;
And,—lightning flashing from his eyes—cried out,
“Rebel, and fool! hence! get thee from my sight!
Away with thee! lest I my oath forget,
And rashly with my own hand strike thee dead!
Pernicious is thine aspect! and thy breath
Poisons the wholesome air! No—slave accursed!

171

Hateful, and insolent! I will not loose
Your fetters; but will heavier bow you down;
And tread you in the dust; and spit on you!
Hence! hence, I say! Chained battle longs to fly.
The price is on thy head—away—away!”

Deep in the ground striking his quivering spear;
With voice terrific, on the monarch's speech,
Incensed, Arbaces broke: “Tyrant abhorred!
I hear; and I defy thee! On thy head
As justly might not I the blood-price set?
But no! such glory be for thee alone!
In combat thou mayst perish openly;
I bribe no murderer's blow. Brave king! farewell!
The eternal gods are mightier yet than thou:
Their hands avenging are stretched over thee.”

Still was he speaking, when, with tiger-spring;
A gleaming dagger in his hand; his face
With demon's fury lit; and yelling loud;
Zimri flew on him,—through his neck, behind,
Aiming to drive quick death.

The bound, the yell,
Arbaces heard,—glanced back,—the falling steel
Beheld, and leaped aside. O'erbalanced, went
Headlong the balked assassin. With a stroke
Of his great shield, as stumbling he went on,
Arbaces smote, and dashed him to the ground;
Face foremost to the ground, with violent clash,
Smote him,—his lance uplifted—on his neck
His left foot planted; and the fatal blow
Threatened,—yet spared. Up went terrific cries
From all who saw: swords flashed, and spears were raised:
Horsemen pushed onward: chariots 'gan to roll;
And from their ranks the troops, in discord wild,
To break—when, from his car outleaped the king;
And, by Arbaces standing, spread his arms,
Crying aloud: “Back! back! Have I not sworn?
Down, sword and lance! Would ye the gods incense?”

Thus he; and all the multitude stood awed:
The uplifted lances sank; into their sheaths

172

The swords returned. But, as the tumult ceased,
Confusion in the Median camp was heard;
Outcries, and clash of arms: for they the din
And sudden stir among the Assyrians marked;
And foulest treachery feared.

On Zimri still
His foot Arbaces held. To him the king:
“Hear'st not disorder in thy camp? Away;
Lest worse befall: but, first, just vengeance take.
Death is the traitor's doom: into thy hands
I yield him: pause not: drive thy weapon home;
For foul disgrace upon us hath he brought;
And with his blood must cleanse it. From thy hand
Most fit it were the just reward should come.
Strike then: or if, by foes surrounded thus,
Unsafe thou deem it; fettered hand and foot,
Into thy chariot fling him; and his fate,
Even as thou wilt, dispose. From us outcast,
Let him with life his treason expiate!”

While thus the monarch spake, from Zimri's neck
His foot Arbaces took; and, with deep scorn,
Looked down upon him. Stunned,—or with excess
Of shame and fury, strengthless,—as if dead,
With face upon the earth close pressed, lay he.
Then, to the king, Arbaces: “Of his fate,
Best that thyself decide: a sentence just
Thou hast pronounced, which, in the minds of all,
From censure clears thee; but the punishment
From other hands expect: or, if from me,
Thus do I speak it: Zimri—rise, and live!
Clothed in thine infamy, through all this land
Go forth, and say, ‘Thus doth the Mede revenge!”

So speaking, with his lance, contemptuously,
The prostrate wretch he stirred. He, leaping up;
With pallid face, wild eye, and quivering lip,
In self excuse 'gan plead: but, on his speech,—
Wrath in his eye and voice,—the monarch broke.
“Hence from my sight, thou infamous! away!
Fly to the city: and thy shameless head
In thickest darkness hide; lest not from me

173

Like mercy thou shouldst find. The rebel's grace,
On thee bestowed, from me small thanks demands;
Equally hateful both: or thou the more,
Him thus exalting. But, no time for words.
Prime traitor! thy defiance I have heard!
Haste to thy legions: and in battle try
If over us; or thy besotted crew;
The arm of Heaven for vengeance is put forth.”

To him Arbaces: “Then from Heaven expect;
This day perchance, or not suspended long;
The chastisement thy pride and guilt call down!
Farewell, Assyria's king! When next we meet,
A different greeting look for. Blind thou art,
And for destruction ravenous. Take thy fill!”

Thus having spoken, haughtily he bent;
With hand extended unto all alike,
Brief farewell waved; turned then, and took his way.
Amid the gazing ranks, with rapid strides,
Onward he went. To every step, his plume
Loftily nodded; and his great sword rang.
His countenance was dreadful to behold:
His eye shot lightning; and his angry brow,
Like storm-cloud, threatened. At his car anon
Arriving, up he sprang: a moment stood;
Back toward the tyrant looking, his right arm
Defiantly flung up: seized rein and scourge,
And flew along the plain: close after him
The heralds, o'er their straining horses bent.

His coming, soon the anxious Medes beheld;
And with wild rapture hailed him. 'Mid the host,
At tempest-speed arriving—to its height
His voice he lifted; “Get ye ready all:
Battle—the battle is at hand! prepare!
Call on the gods for victory! The foe
Exults and threatens: cast the boaster down!
The day of retribution is at hand!
The hour of your deliverance draweth nigh!”

So he, still pressing onward. Far away
His voice was heard; and, like a fire new roused,
Outflamed that warlike multitude. Each man

174

Unto his fellows called; to noblest deeds
Each rousing each; and all, as with one heart,
On victory, or on glorious death resolved.

Arriving now where Salamenes stood,
And young Nebaioth, with their heralds twain;
Thus spake Arbaces: “All is vain! away!
He will not hearken; let him bide the event!
But speed ye, ere too late!” That said, at once,
No answer tarrying, swiftly he flew on;
Stirring all hearts to fight.

The hostage chiefs
As little lingered; but, with sudden haste,
Turned, and drove back. Their coming, with loud cheers,
The Assyrians hailed. Then, at the king's command,
Rang out the trumpets; and the long, loud voice
Of all that mighty multitude went up:
Swords clashed; and ensigns waved: and like a sea
Storm-swept, rolled on the blazing armament.

The Median trumpets also rent the air;
Shoutings terrific, and the clang of arms:
So, for the mortal shock, the exulting hosts,
Calling on God aloud, to battle rushed.

175

BOOK THE TENTH.

As when two clouds enormous, black, fire-charged,
By adverse winds driven on, in conflict meet,—
Outleap the lightnings, and the thunders roar:
Cloud calls to cloud; mountain to mountain calls;
Heaven unto earth; and earth to heaven again,—
With uproar such, doubly redoubling, rose
The clamors of the fierce encountering hosts.

As on his single arm the fate might hang
Of that great contest; to his deadly work,
As to a joyful feast, each captain went.

Like to a lordly lion, through the fight
Assyria's monarch raged; nor equal met.
Yet he Arbaces fronted not; that arm
Too well remembering; and beholding now,
Where, through the scattering multitude he swept.
Too well he saw; but shunned to meet the storm;
Till of its fury should a part be spent:
Himself, meantime, amid his enemies
Raged irresistibly; and with his voice,
And deeds heroic, in his soldiers' breasts
Unwonted ardor waked.

Yet, fiercer far
Within his enemies' hearts the martial flame
Blazed inconsumably; by nobler thoughts,
And in a cause far nobler, to the height
Of mortal daring raised; that life, or death,
Indifferent seemed; so might renown be won.

176

Thus, fewer far; yet, in that lofty soul,
Mightier—in strife unequal they their foes
Boldly confronted.

Till the flaming god
From the broad summit of heaven's azure hill,
With step majestic slowly 'gan descend,
Well balanced stood the fight. But, in the midst,
Deep in the Assyrian host, Arbaces now,
With chariots and with horse, victorious fought;
Nor knew that, far away, to either hand;
By numbers overborne, yet struggling still,
Backward his friends were driven. For Jerimoth,—
'Gainst Salmanassar, and the Arabian horse,
Prevailing,—like a fire, by rising winds
To threefold rage awaked,—upon them drove,
With havoc ruinous: and Jehoshaphat—
That seeing—on the reeling enemy,
With shock so crushing all his chariots urged;
That in confusion soon they turned and fled.

But Abdolonimus, who, far advanced,
Upon Assyria's mailëd infantry
Dread inroad made—the tidings heard, and thus,
Upstanding, to his charioteers cried out:
“Haste! turn your steeds: upon Jehoshaphat
Drive; and cry out aloud; that Jerimoth
May hear us, and fall back.”

His voice was heard;
And on from man to man the summons flew.
Turned swiftly then the cars: the scourges hissed;
And, underneath the rapid brazen wheels,
The firm earth trembled.

On the other verge
Of battle, meantime, Zadok with his horse,
And, with his chariots, Michael,—backward drove
Dark Ithamar, and agëd Bezaleel,
Who, with their Parthian horsemen, and the cars
Of Phrygia, and Cilicia, long had stood,
O'ermatched, yet resolute.

But Arbaces still
Victorious onward urged: till, on the mount

177

Arriving now, where, with Assyria's king,
Brief conference he had held,—o'er all the plain
His eye he cast; and, in dismay, sheer rout
On either hand beheld. To Azareel,
Who close beside him all the day had fought;
And Japhet, in one roomy chariot both,—
Their prize in the first battle,—with loud voice,
Still in his car upstanding, then he cried:
“Haste! haste, my friends, and to Belesis fly;
And to Abiram, with his Susian horse:
Bid them to Bezaleel speed instantly,
And Ithamar; whom in dire stress I see;
Outnumbered far. No moment must be lost!”

So he: and they flew on. Round looking then,
Thus, to the captains nigh, Arbaces cried;
“Toil on, brave men! Your bright reward will come.
But, deeper in their battle press not now;
Lest, from our friends too far removed,—for both,
Help mutual should be lost. A little while
Perforce I leave you; to the Arabian horse
Succour to take; by fiery Jerimoth,
And fierce Jehoshaphat, unequal pressed.
Ere long expect me back. Meantime, no foot
Of ground so hardly won, unto the foe
Resign; lest he should triumph and wax bold.”
So he; then, with the chariots, and the horse
Of Hadad, king of Israel, onward drove.

With thrice a hundred iron cars; and steeds
Ten thousand; mail-clad infantry, with spear,
Sword, mace, or battle-axe armed, twelve thousand strong;
Bowmen, and skilful slingers, that huge stones,
Both with the right hand and the left, could hurl,—
Of these twelve thousand also,—with such strength,
The Medes to aid, upon that morn had come
The king of Israel, Hadad: for his heart
Had smitten him, as homeward he was bound,
That in their struggle he his friends had left.
A prophet also had uplift his voice
Conjuringly, and cried, “O king! return;

178

Go back against the city: for the Lord,
The God of Israel, with a mighty hand
Will smite her: in her pride will cast her down,
And make her desolate! toward the city, back!
Lest, when the Mede shall triumph, on thy head
The fury of the nations be let loose.”

Thus had the prophet cried: the people then
Had prayed, “O Hadad hearken to his words!”
So he had pitched his tents; and said, “Behold,
Here will we 'bide awhile, and tidings wait;
Lest, if the king have triumphed, in his hands
We be delivered; and his vengeance feel.”

But, the next morn, came missives from the Medes,
And said, “O Hadad, king of Israel! come;
Come back against the city; for all day,
Even from the rising till the setting sun,
Stood we in combat, and their hosts drove back:
Even to the gates we drove them: and their slain
Are as the autumnal leaves. Come therefore back,—
Come instantly, lest, when the spoil is won;
Thy portion shall be shame and mockery.”

Then Hadad bade the trumpets sound aloud,—
The tents to strike; and toward the city turn.
So, on the morning of that second fight,
A welcome aid, he came; and, in the midst,
Even with the chariots of Arbaces, stood.

Him, 'gainst Jehoshaphat and Jerimoth
Hasting, Arbaces called: then Israel's king,
His horsemen, and his iron chariots, took;
And joyfully went on: but, with the foot,
His brother, and chief captain, Midian, left.

Not by his foes unknown, Arbaces went:
Him, their chief terror, from the contest seen
Rapidly speeding,—with new courage they,
And strength, turned back to combat. Man on man
Calling aloud, eagerly back they turned.

Direful o'er all the plain the havoc now!
Where, with his Babylonian infantry,
Almelon fought; and, with their Persian horse,
And chariots, Geber, and Barzanes huge,—

179

Assyria's monarch there like fire was seen,
His foes consuming: like the sun, his car
Rapidly rolling, flung about the light:
His voice was heard; his spear aloft was seen:
Clanged now his bow; and now his javelin hissed:
His sword now flamed; and now his ponderous axe
Harsh measure to the battle-chorus struck.
Before the tempest of his chariot wheels,
Were men and steeds o'erthrown: and, by the hoofs
Of his impetuous horses trodden down,
Fell hundreds; groaned, and died.

But him, at length,
Long sought in vain, Rabsaris now beheld;
And toward him madly drove. With eyes distent,
And bared teeth grinding, his tempestuous lance
He hurled; and on the breast so forcefully
The monarch struck, that backward on the seat,
Reeling, he dropped; yet harmless: the strong mail
Entrance refused; and from its polished face,
Deep though indented, cast the fury off.
Yet, breathless and amazed, the king knew not
That his own lance, in the same moment hurled,
Upon the helmet with a blow so strong
Had struck his enemy, that from out the car
Had he fallen headlong.

Him to rescue then,
Flew Azariah; full upon the king,
With all his archers, arrows in thick clouds
Pouring incessantly; and on the horse,
And chariots, who to succour him drew nigh.

But, of Nehushta heedful; and the word
That he to her had pledged; with prudent care,
Dara the steeds drew off; and shunned the strife.

Nor aught the king gainsaid; till, wonted strength
Recovering soon, into the thickest fight,
Hotly again he plunged. But, from the ground,
Dizzy and sick, the while, Rabsaris rose;
By Azariah aided; and, his car
Feebly ascending, from the tumult 'scaped.

But far away, meantime, Arbaces flew:

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Till, where the Arabian king, in doubtful fight
Against Jehoshaphat stood, arriving now;
On the scared foe he drove: right on drove he;
Upon Jehoshaphat, full in the midst,
His mighty steeds impelling. At that sight,
The Assyrians shrank, and turned: but him, their chief,
In his own strength confiding, scorned to shun:
With spear uplifted, toward the Mede he went:
Hurled, and fell backward: for, upon his crest,
The brazen javelin of Arbaces struck:
Snapped the embroidered thong, that 'neath his chin
The helm secured; and, in a rapid flight,
Round and round whirling, drove it o'er the ground.
With arms upflung, and wildly gleaming eye;
Speechless, and stunned, back fell Jehoshaphat;
Back in his car; then senseless to the earth:
For, 'gainst his chariot fiercely drove the Mede;
Tore off the crackling wheel,—flat to the ground,
Dashed car and rider; and the steeds o'erthrew.

Then rose terrific clamors; cries of fear,
And peals of triumph mingling. Onward went
The dreaded Mede, resistless. From his face,
Appalled, his enemies shrank; and from the sweep
Of his earth-shaking chariots and his horse.

In rapid flight the foe beholding soon;
To Israel's king, and Abdolonimus,
The strife Arbaces left; and, with his cars,
Against the horse of furious Jerimoth
Flew on like tempest. Them, in fierce pursuit
Of Salmanassar, and the Arabian horse,
O'ertaking,—all unlooked for, on their rear,
Full in the midst he drove. Astonished, they
Headlong before him fled; to right and left,
Like waters from before the driving prow,
Hastily parting wide.

But Jerimoth,
Foremost of all in hot pursuit, that flight
Knew not as yet. Him soon Arbaces saw;
And from his mighty bow an eager shaft

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Sent hissing. Through the mail behind it went;
And his left shoulder pierced. Surprised, and stung,
Round turned the Assyrian; and his terrible foe
Pressing upon him saw; yet shunned not now;
But, with sharp pain and rage to madness fired,—
As on the hunter the struck tiger turns,
So on Arbaces he. The galling shaft
Still in his shoulder fixed,—his foaming steed
Backward he turned: and, in his strong right hand
A brazen javelin shaking, vowed revenge.
But from the dreadful bow again out flew
A hissing pest: and, through his courser's mail
Bursting, sank deep. Death-struck, and groaning loud,
A little space yet toiled the noble steed;
Reeling and faint: nor Jerimoth his dart,
Perplexed, could aim; for, like the hurricane's blast,
Came on the fiery coursers of the Mede;
And horse and rider dashed at once to earth.

As a huge stone, by a strong arm impelled,
With heavy jar alighting, o'er and o'er
Swiftly doth roll; then stops, and moves no more,—
So, to the earth, by that tremendous shock
Hurled headlong, Jerimoth, in blood and dust,
Rolled senseless; and lay still. On flew the steeds:
Nor Abner, for a time, their rage could curb:
But his strong arm the Mede at length put forth;
And in their frenzy stayed them. Looking back,
The Assyrian horse and chariots in full flight
He soon discerned; and Salmanassar close,
And all the Median cars, in fierce pursuit.
To Abner then the slackened reins he gave;
“Away!” he cried; “they need us not again.
On! to the Parthian horse, and Phrygian cars;
By Michael and fierce Zadok sorely pressed;
If to their aid Belesis, and the horse
Of Susa with Abiram, have not come.”

Thus he; and Abner the hot steeds let go.
Behind the battle, with the speed of wind,
Then flew they: and Arbaces, as they went,—

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Like to the lordly eagle from his height,—
O'er all the field his keen, far-seeing eye
Glanced rapidly.

But Jerimoth, long time,—
Though all around him roared the din of fight,—
As in a deep sleep lay: nor, when to sense
Slowly returning, did he well, at first,
The fight remember: a faint sound of wheels;
A distant tramp of steeds, was in his ear:
And in his brain disjointed images,
Like clouds first forming in a vacant sky,
Gathered, and grew to shape: a deadly strife
He saw,—chariots, and horsemen, flight, pursuit,
Victors, and vanquished. “'Tis a dream,” he thought;
“Soon shall I wake.” But on his face the air
Blew freshening: sense revived, though dimly yet,
Brought back the past: and then aloud he said;
“It is no dream! I feel the arrow-head
Deep in my shoulder.” Speaking thus, his eyes
He opened; and the darkness passed away.
Within Meshullam's arms he found himself;
And in his chariot borne. His feeble head
From the steel pillow raising, wildly now
Around he looked; and saw that far behind
They had left the battle. With a faint voice then,
“Turn back, turn back,” he said: but, from his mouth,
Even while he spake, out gushed a purple stream:
Down sliding, helpless, in the car he sank:
And, as the swoon came o'er him, inly said,
“Never again to battle shalt thou go!
The hand of death hath touched thee! Rise, oh God!
Confound the rebel; and the city save!”

Him, corpse-like as he lay, Meshullam raised;
Took from his head the helm, and on his breast
The corslet slackened. By a streamlet soon
Arriving, 'neath a thick wide-spreading oak;
Meshullam, and his charioteer, the steeds
Secured: then, on the sweet grass, tenderly,
The senseless warrior laid; and his pale face
With the cool water sprinkled. Sighing deep;

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From head to foot quivering convulsively,—
To life at length he came; and, his dim eyes
Unclosing, saw above the fresh green light;
And ether's soft blue, through the restless boughs,
Fitfully gleaming: but the gentle voice
Of wind-stirred leaves, or the swift streamlet's plash,
Heard not; for, like a distant sea, storm-tossed,
The conflict roared; and to all softer sound
The ear made deaf. Upon his elbow, now,
Slowly uprising, toward the field he looked:
And, groaning, bowed his head; for, in his back,
He felt the rankling shaft; and, to the fight,
Knew that return was hopeless. To his friend
Then thus at length, with feeble tone, he spake:
“Haste thee, Meshullam: draw the arrow out;
That, if to die, I may the sooner pass;
Or, if to live, the sooner may go forth
To lead again in battle. Fear thou not;
But draw thy dagger, and the barb cut out:
For, to the city will I not return;
But on this spot, or 'neath thy hand expire;
Or live, the fortune of the day to see;
Evil or good. Thou canst not pain inflict,
More than my soul is stubborn to endure.
Strength comes again unto me; and my breast
Feels lightened of its load. Even yet, perchance,
In yonder strife, not useless, may I mix;
Maimed tho' I am, and powerless. Pause not then;
But firmly do thy work; and, if I shrink,
Heed not, but onward; for this dreary gloom,
I long to change to light of heaven—or death!”

So he: then, his pale forehead with both palms
Compressing, bowed his head unto the ground;
And, without word or motion, the sharp pang
Fearlessly waited. With less steadfast heart,
Meshullam, from the broken arrow-shaft,
First loosed the mail, and laid it on the ground:
With pincers, then, the steel head firmly griped;
And, slowly drawing, with his dagger's point,
The clinging flesh set free; till, with a gush

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Of black, and crimson blood, forth came the barb;
And, gently sinking; even as a child
In sudden sleep dissolving; close to earth,
In a soft swoon, the bleeding warrior lay.
Meshullam, next, with careful hand, the juice
Of healing herbs infused into the wound:
Then, with a bandage bound; and made secure.

From out the brook, meantime, the charioteer
Brought water; washed from mouth, and beard, and breast,
The blackening gore; and, with refreshing drops,
The pale face sprinkled. From the swoon, at length,
Recovering, on Meshullam anxiously
The sufferer looked,—and, with faint voice, thus spake:

“My friend, I thank thee; for myself yet less
Than for my country; which, with strength restored,
Soon I again may serve. But haste thee now;
And cry unto my warriors, that not yet
Hath Jerimoth unto the pit gone down:
But that, even now, upon the field his eye
Watchful he keepeth; and to heaven his voice
For victory to our holy cause doth lift.
Haste; mount thy chariot then: but leave with me
Zemirah, if thou wilt; lest, all alone
And helpless,—should my wound burst forth anew,
Even yet may death o'ertake me.”

To his words
Brief answer made Meshullam: but the hand,
Extended to him, wrung; bade short farewell;
Sprang to his chariot; and the snorting steeds
With voice and thong along the plain impelled.

Zemirah, meantime, from the glistening oak,
Branches and pliant shoots down rending, framed
A couch not uninviting. There, outstretched,
With raised head, half recumbent; toward the field,—
By dust, and steam, as from a cauldron vast,
Mantled, and dimly visible,—all day,
With earnest eye, the wounded warrior gazed.

Nor with the sunset, homeward did he go;
But, in the chariot of Henahad borne;

185

Near to the wall, sure tidings of the fight
Anxiously waited: then, rejoicing, went:
And, till the morning, in disordered dreams
Of rout, and victory, lay.

But not in dreams
Fought now the struggling nations; nor with arms
Forged in a brain perturbed; but, foot to foot,
And shield to shield; with sword, dart, axe, and spear,
Sent the loud clang to heaven. By Zadok still,
And Michael, with their chariots and their horse,
Sore pressed,—dark Ithamar, and Bezaleel;
Though to their aid, with all his Susian horse,
Abiram; and, with cars of Babylon,
Belesis, had made speed,—in dreadful strife
Stood yet: nor either host its foe could drive;
Nor either would be drivën; but man 'gainst man;
Horse against horse; and car 'gainst brazen car,
Shocking,—with havoc direful they the ground
Dyed crimson: and, in heaps on heaps, the slain,
Like a thick harvest, piled. Above the dead
The living stumbled; and rose not again;
Steed upon floundering steed o'er-rolling, fell;
And car in car lay locked.

But, his great voice,
Like to advancing thunder, sending forth—
Came on Arbaces. Him, now drawing nigh,
On their left flank the Assyrians first beheld;
And, backward hasting, betwixt either host,
A sudden opening left. For, not as yet
Pressed on the Medes; they, also, the bright car
Advancing, saw; and him that rode therein,
Knew; and, their voices lifting, cried aloud,
“Arbaces comes! the mortal battle-god!
Death rides within his chariot! 'Neath his wheels
Earth trembles; graves fly open!”

As a wedge
Of iron, in the huge and gnarlëd oak
Far entering; the strong trunk with loud crash rends,—
The ponderous chariot of Arbaces so,

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Deep in the Assyrian host, with hurricane speed
Careering, pierced; and far to either hand
A ghastly opening tore. Man, steed, and car;
Before his crushing chariot, and the might
Of his tempestuous horses, were as reeds
Beneath the mammoth. Swiftly fled they all:
The shield behind was cast; the spear, the sword,
The dart, the axe, from out the nerveless hand,
Dropped to the earth: like corn before the wind,
Hither and thither; as the Mede moved on;
Reeled, rolled, and fell, the gasping multitude.

Like gush of waters when the mound is burst;
With whelming violence on the Assyrian host
Poured their fierce enemies now. Havoc was there:
And thirsty Slaughter drank, and had his fill.

Three parts o'er heaven's invisible battlement,
The never-sleeping Sentry of the sky
His round had trodden; from his fiery shield,
Glory, to mortal sight unbearable,
Through Vast of ether flashing: total rout
O'er half the Assyrian force, on either wing,
Had fallën; and destruction infinite
Gathering to whelm them, threatened. But, the fate
Of warfare unto God alone belongs:
Let not the mighty boast him of his strength;
Nor of his skill, the cunning: for the race
Not always to the swift; nor to the strong
The battle. Proudly 'mid his enemies—
As the great lion 'mid the scattering flock—
Rageth the victor now; who yet, ere night,
Shall as the lamb be feeble. Panic-struck,
Yelling, and nerveless, now the myriads fly;
Who, ere long, shall heaven's concave make resound
With peals of victory.

Meantime, in the midst,—
'Gainst Geber, with the chariots and the horse
Of Persia; 'gainst the Babylonian foot
Beneath Almelon; 'gainst the infantry
Of Media, and Arabia; and the horse

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Of Israel's king,—Sardanapalus now,
With chariots numerous, and earth-shaking steeds,
Hotly was driving: nor, where fiercer raged,
And with a deadlier course, the dreadful Mede;
Knew, or aught feared. But, suddenly, the din
Of havoc—far away upon his left;
Where Michael fled, and Zadok, with the horse
And chariots—loudly pealing, and more loud,
Smote on his ear; and with thick throbbings shook
His heart; and made his countenance like stone.
Standing erect, he called to stay advance:
The word flew on: horsemen, and charioteers,
Quickly drew rein; and, soon, all eyes, all ears,
On that dread human hurricane were fixed;
Astonished, awe-struck.

In the monarch's car,
At his left hand; for his deserts high graced;
Though powerless yet the sword to lift, or spear,
That day Nebaioth sat. Brief time elapsed,
Upstood he—bowed—and, half admonishing,
Half-fearing, spake: “Let not the king of kings
Be thus astounded, nor the rebel fear!
With arms victorious over half the field
Pursues he not his enemies? Arise!
King of Assyria; and thy strength put forth!
Thunder upon them with thy chariots now;
And let thy horsemen trample them as mire!
God to his chosen ruler will decree
The victory,—so his own heart fail him not—
And pour destruction on his enemies.
Cry then aloud, O king! and with thy might
Go on them as the storm-blast: lest, amazed
Beholding thee; thy warriors, dauntless else,
Catch terror from thee; and their strength depart.”

To him, with brow displeased, the monarch thus:
“What hast thou said? O'er boldly now, young chief,
Unto the king thou speakest. Not from him,—
To fight albeit unused,—hath any man
Terror infectious taken; nor shall take.
Yet, warriors brave as thou—though 'gainst their king

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To rail, perchance less valiant,—from yon Plague;
Whose demon-shout even now o'er all the din
Sounds in mine ear,—tremendous homicide!
Have deemed flight not unwise.”

To such harsh words
No answer made Nebaioth; but, with face
Deep blushing, silent stood. Him, thus rebuked,
The king beheld; and, his high worth approved,
Remembering, on his shoulder his left hand
Placed gently; and, with softened tones, addressed:
“Thou art forgivën; for thy words, ill weighed,
By love o'er-zealous, and a daring heart,
Were prompted. Still, as heretofore, be thou
Bold for thy country; and thy counsel still
Unto the king be free. But, doubtful thus,
Not longer may we tarry.” His strong voice
Uplifting then, he cried, “Abihu, thou,
And Sisera, with twice a hundred horse
Ride fleetly; and to Salamenes say;
‘Haste with thy chariots: Michael, on the left,
And Zadoc, by Arbaces overmatched,
Fly panic-stricken. Take along with thee
The horse of Adriel; every horseman take:
But mix not in the fight till on their rear,
Unlooked for, thou may burst, and trample them.
Meantime, to meet them, face to face, the king
With all his chariots and his horse will go.
O'er-numbered thus, they must before us fall.’”

As, in mid ocean, the storm-hurried tide;
Some island's cliffy shore encountering,—
Foaming, and roaring, with huge sweep wheels round,—
So, at the monarch's bidding, that vast force;
Leftward wheeled suddenly; and all their might,
Chariots and horse, to crush the Mede rolled on.

At length, upon a gently rising ground
Pausing, the monarch, nor far off, beheld
Battle's white-heated furnace. As at noon;
Amid some island of the western main;
By earthquake shattered oft, and torn by winds,—
The dusky Indian, on a hill's soft slope,

189

Beneath the shade, reposing; while the breeze
Faint-panting, the bowed leaves scarce moves at all,—
From his soft dreamings—at a sound far off,
Well known, and dreaded,—starts; and, looking forth;
Amid the dark impervious wood beholds
The whirlwind passing,—as beneath the tread
Of some cloud-statured fiend invisible,
The forest trampling like the stubble-field,—
Tree after tree he sees, with swing, and crash,
Bowing, and breaking; and a broad road left,
As of a torrent's bed,—aghast he stands,
And marvels at the terror of its might:—
Even so, amid the thickest of the field,
Forcing resistless his destructive path;
Assyria's king, mute with astonishment,
The terrible Mede beheld. As o'er the face
Of marble statue, in the moon's pale beam,
The far-off noiseless lightnings; darkly red
Through the dusk, horizontal atmosphere;
With fitful gleamings shoot,—alternate white,
And fiery hued, the stony brow appears,—
So, on the face of the perturbëd king,
Paleness unearthly, and an angry glow,
Brief conflict held. Disdain, awe, rage, fear, shame,
By turns convulsed him. Burst at length his voice,
Stormy, and broken, as a bursting flame
Long smothered: fiercely toward his dreaded foe
Pointing; and all around him glancing quick;
“Behold!” he cried, “behold the homicide!
The rebel! the destroyer! Shall yon sun
On his unpunished head again go down?
Men of Assyria! think on the reward!
Honor, and riches, rank, renown, and power,
Are calling you to win them. Strike to earth
The caitiff! pour his blood upon the ground!
A thousand golden talents to the man
That slays him! Twice a thousand unto him
That living captures! On! upon him! on!
Death, with renown; or wealth and glory, win!”

Then with a sudden tremor the air shook,

190

Rocked by the myriads shouting: man on man
Called out aloud: horsemen above the necks
Of their strong horses bowed; deep in their flanks
Driving the gore-clogged spurs: and chariot wheels,
Like tangled lightnings, flashed along the ground.

Tremendous now the thickening conflict grew;
Host against host, like wave 'gainst mountain wave,
Rolling, and breaking. Not a cloud in heaven
Stirred from its place: the winds were locked: no leaf
Moved, nor thin blade, nor pendant gossamer.
As if the issue of that mortal strife
Breathless awaiting, Nature seemed to pause.

With noise, and havoc, and confusion such,
The raging myriads in the conflict strove.
Shouts, cries, groans, yells, and execrations, rose:
Shields, helmets, mail, swords, spears, and axes rang:
Steeds snorted; trampled; chariots clashed, and broke:
Air quivered; and earth trembled underneath.

Like to Leviathan; amid the war
Of storm and waters, o'er the roaring deep
Triumphant riding: 'gainst the mountain wave,
Now, as in pastime, shooting: on its back,
Now, dallying with the foam: and, now, down, down,
With arrowy swiftness, to the dark profound
Suddenly cleaving; and, in might elate,
Far through the unfathomable solitude,
Rocking the slumberous depths,—with mastery such,
The battle-tempest ruling; 'mid his foes,
Irresistibly onward bore the heroic Mede.
Before his lifted spear, the bravest shook:
The strongest, at the terror of his voice,
Waxed feeble: hosts, before his coming on,
Like one man fled: himself a host appeared.
Still, as he moved, in widening circle shrank
The throngs astounded: for his countenance,
With fierce rage, like hot iron seemed to glow:
And, in his form, strength not of man appeared,
His enemies to confound. Astonished, gazed
Medes, and Assyrians both; and many an arm,
Pausing, forgot its purpose.

191

But the king,
Amid his guard magnificent came on;
And, like a tempest sending forth his voice,
Urged to the battle. Standing in his car,
Shaft after shaft against the Mede he sent:
Still on his warriors crying ceaselessly;
Still bidding them remember the reward.

Him, now advancing, when Arbaces saw,—
Caution forgetting, and with fury blind,—
From Abner's hand the reins and scourge he snatched;
And through the press, and through the Assyrian guard,
Forcing his way—right on toward him alone,
The thundering horses drove. Far in he pierced;
Single amid his enemies: for still,—
Like waters closing round the vessel's stern,—
Poured in behind the foe; by their own press
Forced in; and from the Mede all pass shut out.
Aghast with wonder; certain of quick death;
Sat Abner speechless; underneath his shield
Close cowering.

That rash act beholding, cried
The king triumphant; and with lifted spear
Toward him 'gan hasten. Still drove on the Mede;
Furious and fearless. But to Abner now
The reins he gave; and, lifting up his lance,
'Gainst the king aimed it; when, with hideous crash,
Upon a mound of slain o'erturned, down fell
Car, rider, horse, precipitate to the ground;
And, with a yell of triumph, from their steeds
And chariots leaping, toward the fallen chief,
Like wolves upon the sinking traveller,
Headlong a multitude ran.

With fall as light
As the young tiger's, from a playful leap,
Dropped on his feet Arbaces. Abner, too,
Though hand and knee upon the earth he sank,
Swiftly upstarted; nor from his firm grasp
The reins let go. Struggling, and panting hard,
As quickly rose the horses. With a strength

192

More than gigantic, heaving at the car;
Arbaces in an instant on its wheels
Upflung it; and his charioteer bade mount.
To the seat at once leaped Abner; and the Mede
To follow hastened; but, from off the ground,
While he his battle-axe, his spears and shield,
To gather stooped,—on flew the terrified steeds;
And rapidly amid the Assyrian ranks
Mingled, and disappeared.

Then Abner felt
His death-hour come; nor for the fatal stroke
Long waited: for, amid the chariots soon
Fast locked; from sword, dart, axe, and lance, at once,
Death instantaneous fell.

Now, all alone;
Hemmed in by enemies; from aid cut off;
Like a majestic lion, whom the hounds,
Fearful, yet fierce, enclose, Arbaces stood.
Swiftly as darkness in the midnight sky
On the spent lightning follows,—in his breast
So rapidly, to fury without bound,
Dead calm succeeded. In an instant's space,
Looking around, his perilous state he saw;
And all his rashness knew. Thick-crowding thoughts,
In few brief moments, flood-like swept his soul:
Heaven at his pride incensed,—his glory quenched,—
The nations with a heavier chain bowed down,—
The groaning victims, and the vengeful king,—
The curse upon his grave,—the scoffer's hoot
On his loved parent, to the dungeon dragged,—
The violent hand on his Hamutah laid,—
Her pale wild face; her shrieks; the demon laugh
Of the exulting tyrant;—thoughts like these,
Dense thronging, passed; tortures unspeakable
Infixing. Motionless; with flashing eye
Bent on his enemies, still an instant he,
As if irresolute, stood—yet resolute most.
To die might be his lot; but, unavenged,
Or feebly; the derision of his foe;

193

Never his doom. Upon his arm the shield;
In his left hand the dreaded battle-axe;
A spear was in his right; upon his thigh
The sword: even yet, perchance, through all that host,
A path might he not force? Might not the day
Even yet be theirs? Was not the promise given?
Would Heaven revoke it? Or could other Power,
Fate, or what else, than God the stronger prove?
Thus he; nor more delayed: but, 'gainst the king,
In his high car conspicuous, his huge lance
Hurling,—turned instantly; and through the press,
With his tremendous axe, a gory path
'Gan hew before him.

From the threatening stroke
Of that fierce lance, but narrowly 'scaped the king.
He, all alone amid his enemies,
The Mede beholding,—ere a sword could fall,
Or spear be aimed, exultingly had cried,
“Into our hands hath God delivered him!
Bind him; but slay not! God into our hands,
Alive hath given the rebel! Strike him not!
Shed not his blood! Run in, and bind him safe!
Two thousand golden talents to the man
That, living, takes him! death to him that slays!”

Thus while he cried,—swift as an arrow's flight,
Right toward him speeding, the dread lance he saw;
Hastily stooped; and lived. A moment more,
And fate had reached him! Even now, his crest
Grazing, the stormy weapon, with loud crash,—
As when from some huge oak, a stubborn limb
Is by the hurricane rent,—right through a car
Behind him tore; and with a mortal stroke
The stooping driver pierced. Uprising, looked
The king, and shuddered: then, again cried out,
“Two thousand golden talents to the man
That, living, takes him! death to him that slays!
Run in, and bind him safe.”

But he, the while,
Through the dense forest of his enemies,
With his dread axe a fearful pathway hewed;

194

And, ever and anon, his voice uplift;
Upon his captains calling, and the priest,
Whom, with dark Ithamar,—the steeds and cars
Impelling on,—not far away he saw.
Nor heard they not. Crying incessantly
Upon the gods, Belesis, fierce as fire,
And Ithamar, on the soldiers calling out,
Urged to the rescue. But, with numerous horse,
And chariots, on them breaking suddenly,
Came Salamenes; with o'erwhelming force,
Back for a space repelled them; and all hope
Of succour to their noble chief cut off.

He, at that sight, with but a doubled rage
His fatal work pursued. Before the sweep
Of his terrific axe, nor man, nor steed,
In mail whatever cased, a moment stood:
Down fell they, horse and rider. As, through reeds,
The armed rhinoceros, heavily trampling, goes,
Nor their opposal feels,—resistless so,
On through the sinking crowd, his dreadful path
The Mede still held; and, for that multitude,
Singly the equal seemed. Yet still the king,
A sweet revenge designing, cried aloud,
“Two thousand golden talents to the man
That, living, takes him! death to him that slays!”

But when, the first great shock o'ercoming now,
Again on pressing, he the cars and horse,
With the fierce priest beheld; and how the Mede,
Triumphant through his slaughtered troops held on;
Then,—lest the hated rebel should at last
His wrath 'scape wholly,—the delicious hope
Of long enduring vengeance he resigned;
And, dead or living, without more delay,
To capture him, resolved. No longer then
Himself from fight refrained; but, in his hand
A spear uplifting, toward him promptly drove;
Still, as he went, calling vehemently,
“Dead, or alive, now take him!”

That harsh cry
Arbaces heard,—turned quickly,—from the ground

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A lance caught up,—against the shouting king
Hurled it,—his loudly ringing breastplate smote,—
And drove him, staggering, back into the car:
Yet harmed him not,—for the soft-pointed beam
Upon the hard mail flattened, and glanced off.
Not so the tempered weapon of the king,
In the same moment 'gainst Arbaces cast;
For, on his shield alighting, with dread clang,
Right through its golden boss, and inner plate
Of steel, it burst; above the collar's rim,
His neck lanced, and a trickling crimson loosed.

That seeing, with loud cries his enemies
Rejoiced; and, to assault him, bolder grew:
For, whom the Invulnerable they had named,—
Even as themselves, susceptible of wound
They saw; and his last hour approaching hoped.

But he, undaunted, from the faithless shield,—
Then faithless first,—on both sides snapped the lance;
And, with redoubled fury, on his foes
Drove irresistibly. Tremendous now
The havoc and the uproar. As when hounds,
Cheered by the hunters, round the lion bay
With ceaseless yelling; now, upon him spring;
And, now, loud howling fly; such clamorous din
Around Arbaces rose.

But, from his car
Down leaping soon, right toward the dreadful Mede
Went the wrath-burning king: and Zimri too;
Who, though disgraced, and banished from the field,
Yet, greedy of revenge; in armour strange
Disguised; unknown among the throng to pass
Had hope. At once advancing, on the Mede
Came they: behind him, Zimri; but the king,
Even to his face. That seeing, from assault
Refrained the rest. Short then had been the strife
For the proud monarch, though with trebled strength,
No instant help at hand; for, far as leaps
The flying stag, yet fresh, when in his path
Down the steep slope a sudden chasm he spies;
Even at one bound, so far upon the king

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Sprang on Arbaces,—his tremendous axe
High gleaming,—and upon his lifted shield
A crushing blow let fall. Then shield, and helm,
And cuirass to the waist, had parted wide,
Before that blow resistless,—other might
Not timely interposing. But, at hand,
Stood Joash; of gigantic stature; strong,
Fierce, bold, and proud. In single fight, oft he
The strength renowned of the great Mede to prove,
His wish had boasted. Through the throng,—with voice
Audacious lifted to provoke the strife,—
Now came he suddenly: and, by the king
Standing,—his brazen shield, with giant arm,
High raised; and the descending battle-axe,
Ere half way fallen, encountered. But the blow,
Though midway thus obstruct—the fearful might
Of that great arm attested. Through the shield
Of Joash breaking,—the strong buckler next
Of the astounded king, askaunt it smote;
And 'gainst his helmet dashed it, ringing loud,
That, stunned and staggering, on his knee he sank;
For a brief instant all around forgot;
Climbed feebly then his chariot; and sat mute.

Back stepped the giant, staggered, and amazed,
That strength beholding. But, when from the shield—
By that terrific blow wrenched from his arm—
He saw the Mede, with bowed head, tearing out
The brass-clinched axe—then, tip-toe stretching high,
His mace immense he lifted; and, with teeth
Hard set, and every nerve by fury strung;
Upon his head a blow terrific aimed;
Such as, descending rightly, second stroke,—
Though on the bulwarked front of elephant,
Or mailed rhinoceros,—little would have craved;
Or on the head of fabled god of old;
For Ilium, or for Greece, in battle ranged.
But, sideways turning, him of his intent
Arbaces balked; and, with dire argument,
Soon had convinced; but that, with hasty step

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Approaching,—ere from his unfinished task
The Mede had risen; upon his helm behind,
Zimri a sword-blow dealt, that, knee to earth,
Down drove him; while, from all who saw, went up
Shrieks of wild triumph,—for the death-stroke, now,
Surely had smitten him.

As, on the wreck,
In mid-sea foundering, pour the boiling waves,—
So, on the sinking warrior,—yelling loud,
A flood of enemies poured. But Joash, first,
And Zimri,—as, upon their fallen prey,
Two lions roaring,—headlong on the Mede
Their bulk precipitated; and, with grasp
Of iron, on him fastened. Like two snakes,
The terror of the forest; who the ribs
Of the strong bull within their hideous folds,
As dried reeds, make to crackle,—on the Mede,
With gripe so fierce; upon his right arm, one;
One, on his neck; the vengeful enemies fixed.
O'er them a multitude, with headlong rush,
Poured torrent-like.

But, as from out the trough
Of the deep-rolling sea,—by whelming waves
Awhile borne down,—its broad capacious breast
The strong bark lifts; and o'er the howling surge,
With sails full swelled, and pennant streaming proud,
Again triumphant rides,—even so, at once,
Mid that o'erwhelming flood of enemies,
Irresistibly rising, and their gathered strength
Laughing to scorn,—again triumphantly
Stood up the invincible Mede; and from their grasp;
Like insects flung from the waking lion's mane;
His foes shook off; and backward to the earth,
As by some engine cast, o'er rolling, hurled.
Face to the ground, with armour clanging loud,
Down fell gigantic Joash,—like a weed
Cast from a swimmer's arm,—and, from his neck,
Zimri,—a spear's length flung.

As, in the wastes
Of parched Arabia, when the thunder-stone,

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From heaven's artillery cast,—on some round hill
Of burning sand doth light,—in sudden clouds,
Around it, far and wide, the shivered dust
Flies hissing,—from the presence of the Mede,
Even so all round him back his enemies flew.
He, with a force tremendous, on them drove;
The fallen trampling; casting down who stood:
Fear in their hearts infusing; and their strength,
Even to an infant's weakness, withering up.

As flies the lightning; on the mountain, now;
Now, on the vale, descending,—the far lake,
Like flame, now brightening; and the forest, now,
With bolt on bolt, east, west, or north, or south,
Momently firing,—the pale swain aghast
Beholds, and fears lest on himself it fall,—
So rapidly; now here, now there; the Mede
Upon his enemies unexpected fell;
And, of himself, for all the equal seemed.

But, not to him that day was victory
By Heaven intended: nor his matchless strength,
And heart undaunted, 'gainst that throng of foes,
Much longer might avail. Toward Zimri now,
With axe uplifted, as he fiercely flew;
Joash his mace enormous,—whirling round;
Surlily humming on its vengeful way,—
With might two-handed flung; and, while on high
The iron thunderbolt hung,—from his jarred hand,
Loud ringing, dashed it. Driven beyond him far,—
A prize unto his vaunting enemies,—
His axe Arbaces saw: but, undismayed,
Though by an army compassed; drew his sword;
Smote on the shoulder Zimri; a wide rent
In his steel armour leaving, and his flesh:
On Joash then,—ere yet his blade was drawn,
Flew,—his thick harness cleft, and his right side
With grievous wound shared deep; that, like a tree
Hewn to the heart, he bowed, and fell down dead.
Forcing his way, nigh to the monarch's car
Soon reached he; and, the final blow to strike,
Ardently hoped: for, him in fight to shun,

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Longer disdaining,—from his chariot now
Leaped the fierce king. Then, had not Heaven forbid,
That moment had his thread of life been shorn;
For, ere his foot descending touched the earth,
At a bound sprang on the Mede; and, for death-blow,
His strength collecting, drove the hissing steel.

As when a thunder-bolt, prodigious, strikes
Some lofty tower; then, earth-ward glancing, sinks;
And is beheld no more:—in silent awe,
Breathless, and fixed, the multitude look on:
And if, from fate preserved, firm on its base
The mighty wall shall stand; or on the earth,
A ponderous ruin, crumble,—a brief space,
In anxious doubt await,—even so, that stroke
Terrific seeing; in mute horror stood
The Assyrians; and a direst issue feared.
Like lightning fell the sword—from off the shield,
Like lightning glanced,—flat on the brazen wheel
Clashed,—in a cloud of sparkling shivers flew;
And, like spent lightning, sank; and disappeared.

The awe-struck Mede—Heaven's own immediate hand
Believing manifest—against the king,
Protected thus, his arm no more would lift:
But, casting from his hand the useless hilt,
With stern eye looked him in the face, and thus:
“Not yet, it seems, thine hour of doom is come:
Nor to this hand, perchance, thy fate is given.
As little unto thine my destiny;
Nor this my day to fall.” So he; then turned;
And through the astonished foes, with fearless look,
His backward path 'gan take. Nor they, awhile,
His course opposed; but toward the monarch looked,
Command awaiting. He; surprised, and awed,
As at his feet the earth had opened wide,
And harmed him not; an instant speechless stood:
But, through his host, untouched, when he the Mede
Returning saw; then, lifting up his voice,
“Upon him! Cast him to the earth!” he cried;
“Slay not; but take him; and in fetters bind!

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Two thousand golden talents to the man
That, living, takes him! Death to him that slays!

Yet no! living, or dead, now take him! See—
His chariots and his horse are pressing on,
Hot for the rescue. But they shall not save!
His gods forsake him; and his doom is come!”

Thus having spoken, his own spear he hurled:
And all who heard, with outcries rent the air;
'Gainst the doomed victim speeding. Twofold hot
Grew then his rage. As, from war's iron throat,
The sulphurous thunder roars; so, from him came,
Peal after peal, a human thunder-storm,
And lightning from his eye. Nor fearful arms
Lacked he, though strange. On whatsoever thing,
Weighty, and hard, his hand could seize,—of that
A deadly weapon made he. Helmet,—shield,—
The iron wheel,—the broken axle-tree,—
Each—all—he hurled among them. Now, a pole,
Torn from a shattered chariot, snatching up;
Like to an arm gigantic round he swung:
A stone enormous, now, uplifting high;
Amid the thickest of his enemies,
With force as of a rock descending, drove.

But all availed not long. In deepening streams,
From gashes numerous, 'gan the blood to pour:
His mighty arm waxed feeble; his breath failed!

As, o'er the sun, in his meridian blaze,
From out the regions of the humid south,
Still gathering depth, a vaporous ocean comes,
His glory dimming: through the crowding rack,
As with it struggling, the majestic orb,
Blood-red, and angry, labors on awhile:
Now, darkens,—now, shoots out a fiery gleam,—
And, now, with thicker blackness is o'erwhelmed:
Till, fading,—slowly vanishing,—at last,
As if for aye extinguished, he goes out,—
So, 'mid the ocean of his enemies;
By toil opprest; faint, breathless, streaming blood,
The heroic warrior struggled: so his eye
Its splendor lost; so passed his strength away.

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Then had he perished; though, to aid him now,
Of Medes no few had come,—for the fierce king
Himself was hasting 'gainst him; and a throng,
With spear, dart, mace, and falchion;—but, at length,
With ardent thousands holding life as nought,
The fiery priest, and Abdolonimus,
Chariot 'gainst chariot clashing; horse 'gainst horse;
Through the dense body of Assyria's might
Broke irresistibly: and, ere too late,
To their heroic chief, deliverance brought.

Bleeding, and pale; with staggering step; the Mede
Into the chariot of Menahem rose;
Spake not; but one wild glance cast round;—then sat:
Bowed more and more his head;—swooned, and fell back.

Him, as he could, supporting,—from his throat
The helmet's glittering band Menahem slacked:
Above him then,—from every eye to screen,—
A crimson mantle threw: his own broad shield
Held over him; and bade the charioteer
In haste to quit the field.

But, not unseen
Passed forth the wounded Mede: nor in the car,
As if expiring, sank he unbeheld.
Exulting then his enemies cried out,
“Rejoice! rejoice! the Terrible hath fallen!
The proud and mighty rebel is laid low!
Men of Assyria, shout; and clap your hands!
For now the day is come! Upon them, then!
Slack not the sword; let not a traitor live!”

So they; but answering clamors sent the Medes;
And still bore hotly on.

Yet, hopeless now
The struggle; and in utter ruin soon
Had they been whelmed: for, over all the field,—
Smit with the tidings of their leader fallen,—
In tumult they 'gan fly,—had not, at length,
Brave Azareel, by stratagem, the fate
Impending, turned aside. With fading light,

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Trusting to pass unknown—he, with some few,
On swift steeds flying, to the Assyrian rear
Went round; and, lifting up his voice, cried out,
“Back to your city, men of Nineveh!
Back to the city! A perfidious foe
Speeds to the walls! The Bactrians are at hand!
Haste, ere they seize the gates; and shut us out!
Back to the city; back! or perish all!”

Thus he incessantly: and, with him, cried
His followers also; riding rapidly
Close to the hindmost rank. The Assyrians heard,
And spread the warning; till, from rear to van,
O'er all the field, the ominous word had flown.

Confusion rose among them now; and dread
Of some dire evil nigh. Nor in pursuit
Dared the king longer bide. The trumpets then
He bade blow out: and, with a mind perplexed,
Back toward the walls, with all his host made speed.

Nor them the Medes pursued: but, instantly,
Toward where their camels, oxen, tents, and wains,
For sudden march prepared, awaited them,
Swiftly retreated; and, with food and rest,
Their faint limbs hoped to cheer. But, to his tent,
Belesis summoned hastily the chiefs;
And promptly was obeyed. O'erclouded brows
Were there; and troubled hearts. The Arabian king,—
So, with Arbaces, willed the voice of all,—
Sole leader was appointed. Brief debate
Held they; resolving quickly to strike tent;
And toward the mountains, while yet night was young,
Noiseless retreat begin.

So they. Meantime,
The Assyrians, to the city hasting back,—
The chariots first, and horsemen,—of the foe
Enquired; but found not; nor could tidings hear.
The cunning guile suspecting; yet in doubt,—
For now thick darkness covered all the plain,—
The king upon the field one half his strength,

203

Nigh to the walls, with Salamenes, left;
And, with the other, to the city passed.

Ten thousand torches on the battlement,
And lofty towers, their quivering splendors flung.
With banners waving; hymns of victory;
The clash of cymbals; and the trumpets' blare;
And vauntings of the countless multitude,—
Through the wide opened portals they went in.

On toward his palace; in his blazing car
Proudly reclining; 'mid the loud acclaim
Of joyful myriads, rode the exulting king.

Him, mid a choir of white-robed virgins pure;
Soft hymns of triumph chaunting as they walked,—
Stately as goddess, the majestic queen;
Radiant as morning clad in orient pearls;
With lifted hands, and smiles of welcome, met.

Through all the camp, the numerous watch-fires, soon,
To the dark clouds a lurid splendor fling.
Around, or in their tents, the soldiers feast;
And quaff the bowl awhile: to slumber then,
Sore needed, haste.

No sound at length is heard,
Save the soft roaring of the thousand fires.

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BOOK THE ELEVENTH.

All night, in silent, slow, and gloomy march,
The sorrowing Medes their weary way pursued.
On easy litter borne, their mighty chief,—
Weak as an infant now,—toward the dark heaven
His dim and pallid eye turned steadfastly,—
His parched lips quivering oft, as with the gods,
Of their mysterious ways, with troubled mind,
Awfully questioning: but not one moan
Of pain he uttered; murmured no complaint.
Dumah, his loved physician, by his side
Unwearied walked; and, ever and anon,
His fevered lips, with juice expressed of fruits,
Cooling and grateful, moistened. All the night,
The outworn foot, slow laboring—sad, and mute,—
The patient camels toiling 'neath their loads,—
The jaded steeds, low hanging their dull heads,—
The drooping rider, the bowed charioteer,—
Silent, and mournful,—like procession dark
Of dreary dream, o'er the dusk plain moved on.

But, when upon the dull and leaden sky,
The cheerful sun his liquid gold 'gan fling;
Then,—customed worship offering first,—with food,
And wine, and respite brief from toil, their limbs
They strengthened; and their drooping hearts revived:
Their journey then renewed: and, ere the day
One half was wasted; to their mountain holds,
With gladdened spirits, reached. The dells among,

205

And pleasant valleys, of the middle heights,
Then quickly pitched they tents. But some, the caves
Of living rock chose rather; whence—disturbed
In their ancestral den of ages past,—
Lion, or tiger, or hyena grim,
At their approach withdrew. Here, deemed secure,
With food, themselves, and wearied steeds, they cheered:
Each, as he listed then, for sweet repose,
His jaded limbs outstretched: and, while the sun,
From heaven's height, his loud summons o'er half earth,
To life, and labor sent; throughout the camp
Sleep reigned, and silence; as the solitude,
In its long trance of ages rested still.

Within a cavern, spacious, dark, and cool,
The wounded leader his sick-chamber found.
Far in its depths, a gently flowing stream;
Cold, diamond-bright; with dreamy whisperings,
Morn, noon, and night, the echoing rock-vault filled.
Before its mouth, a cedar, broad, and high,
Stood sentry; and, with giant arms outspread,
The fierce sun kept aloof: nor, save at hour
Of dewy morn; while yet his face with smiles,
And youthful joy alone, shone radiantly,
His fiery foot admitted. All the day,
With the unresting breeze, a soft discourse,
Mysterious, the slow-waving branches held:
And many a deep sigh breathed; and many a sound
Harmonious, as of voices far away.
The song of leaves, and waters, to the chief,
Visions of youth, and joyous infancy,
In long day-dreamings, brought; that o'er his soul
A healing balm diffused; and the strong throbs
Of his vexed heart, to gentleness subdued.

Grievous, and many, were his wounds: the arm,
Strong, erewhile, as the bar of tempered steel;
Now, like that steel beneath the furnace blast,
Soft, strengthless, had become. Beside his couch,
Dumah, with friendly care that slumbered not,
Still day, and night, his watch unwearied kept:
Nor of the event could judge; nor dared predict.

206

On the next morning, early, rose the priest.
His wounded friend first tended,—and with words
Of hope, and promise from on high, consoled,—
Unto the mountain's loftiest pinnacle,
Apart unto his gods to pray, he went.
Worship performed, he rose; and, looking forth,
'Neath the bright sun, the far-off city saw:
The plain, with tents, as with white sand-grains, strown;
And what seemed glint of chariots, or of arms.
While thus he looked, his heart within him burned;
And, toward the walls his arms uplifting high;
With voice prophetic, her approaching fate;
Suspended, not revoked,—he still foretold;
In the great promise given, confided still.

But, soon to council summoned,—in the tent
Of Abdolonimus the captains met.
Nor in their looks was terror now; nor hope
Of final triumph seemed extinguished quite.
Arabia's monarch then, and Azareel,
Almelon, and Menahem, Bezaleel,
Barzanes, Ithamar, and other chiefs,
Their thoughts spake freely: and Belesis last,—
To all replying; and the sum of good
Together bringing; while the thought unwise,
Slightly be censured—thus the long debate,
Briefly concluded.

“On best course, at length,
Wisely have ye resolved: in this our hold
Impregnable,—from all assault, secure;
Ourselves to assault, yet free,—awhile to wait;
Such good attending as the favoring gods
May yet design us;—from the lands around,
Ample supplies, for even long strife, to bring,—
And, once more, to the recreant Bactrians
Send the great voice,—of this our second fight,
From morn till evening dubious, blazoning:
The fire within them that so long hath slept,
Thus, haply, to rekindle. Meantime, here
Awhile abiding, we, with food and rest,
Ourselves, and steeds, for battle shall make strong;

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While, from his wounds recovering, our great chief,
Now lost to us, will soon again in arms,
Himself a host, arise; and lead us on.”

These words approved, the council was dissolved.

Meantime, in Nineveh, the voice of joy
And triumph throughout all her streets was heard.
For, when at early morn the watch looked forth;
Lo! from the plain the enemy had fled:
Nor, in the vast horizon's stretch, his tents,
To keenest eye were visible. Rose then
Tumult of gladness, acclamation loud.
Through the eastern gates poured forth upon the plain
Exulting myriads; and with song, and dance,
And sound of cheerful instruments, rejoiced.

But, not as they, the king; for, in his heart,
Some cunning fraud he feared. His captains, then,
He bade be summoned; and thus briefly spake.

“What think ye now? and what should we resolve?
Hath, of a truth, the foe fled utterly?
Or, but to lure us from the city, gone;
That, them pursuing, our defenceless gates,
Unto their Bactrian friends, an easy prize,
Meantime, may fall? Or, with their arms to league,
Have they retired; ere long, with force conjoined,
Intent to come against us? Boldly now
Let each man speak: for, unto counsel wise,
Gladly the king will hearken.”

To his doubts
Then answered many: and, the long debate
Concluding, thus, at length, again he spake.

“Hence now: and unto all my will make known.
This day, and on the morrow, be the dead
To earth committed; lest a pestilence
Infect the winds: but, on the second morn,
Ere yet the sun be risen, let all the host
March toward the rocky mountains;—there, be sure,
The rebel hath found harbour.”

With these words,
The council he broke up: but, on the arm

208

Touched Salamenes; and, when now alone,
Thoughts darker spake. “Or with the Mede colleagued,
Or single in their treason—equally
On the base Bactrian shall fall punishment.
To lure them now, forthwith some wily men
Shall hasten; and, in thy name, to their chiefs
Such message bear, as, in their homeward course,
Will make them pause. Gold, honors, rank, and power;
All shall be promised; so unto the king
They will return; and, 'gainst his enemies,
Stand in the battle. To these words will they
Surely give ear: yet, doubting, from my mouth
The sacred pledge will ask. Their backward march
Suspending thus; we,—our great foe first quelled,—
Will upon them; and with no sparing hand;
Reward, earned justly, heap. So, to the world,
A warning through all ages shall they stand;
That not with heedless eye doth Heaven behold
The traitor's deeds; nor will unpunished pass.”

Thus having said, he rose. The fraudful act
Holding in scorn, no word to him replied
The noble chief; but bowed the head, and went.

Nor self-approving wholly was the king.
Retiring to his chamber, all alone,
A sudden cloud upon him, long he sat,
Pondering on what he was; what might have been;
What now could never be. Accusingly,
Came sense of powers, for human good designed,
To evil thwarted; of a life misspent;
A nature noble, even to the rank
Of the unreasoning brute, by vice debased.
Last, that foul murderous deed on memory gleamed—
The prophet, by his hand, in madness slain!
Horribly clear, the ghastly vision shone;
The glaring eyes, the stony countenance!
His blood grew cold: upstarting, from his mind
The torturing scene he drove: and, to and fro,
Fearfully glancing round, trod hurriedly.

But sound of sprightly music broke the spell:
He started, and looked forth. On emerald lawn,
'Neath the cool shade of tall, thick-foliaged trees,

209

Jocund as wood nymphs, his fair concubines,
In graceful dance were twining. Passed away,
Like smoke upon the wind, the gloomy mood.
“Nay—but one hour,” he said; “but one sweet hour.
Beautiful witches!—Might I not? Yet no!”

Upon his eyes, one moment, his broad palm
He pressed; with strong desires, and stern resolves,
Inwardly struggling; then, with firm step, turned;
The palace quitted; in his chariot sprang;
And to the field drove forth.

That day, their dead
The victors buried: and the next day's sun
Upon their toil looked long. But, ere he sank,
The work was finished,—all for march prepared:
And, when again he rose; in bright array,
Lo! the innumerous squadrons; strong in hope;
With ensigns spread; and with the cheerful sound
Of warlike music; proudly moving on.

Till noon their toil unceasing they pursued:
Beneath the shade of cedar-forest then;
And where the fig tree its vast labyrinth
Of pleasant shadow stretches,—leafy streets,
And bowers, self-planted,—a brief sojourn made.
There, food and drink partaking, their tired limbs
Upon the cool and fragrant grass they stretched;
Nor, till the burning mid-day hours had passed;
And freshly 'gan to blow the northern breeze;
Their toilsome march renewed.

Before them, soon,
Distinct stood lofty mountains; rock, and cave,
And stream precipitous dashing. Half way up,
The white tents of the foe, at length, they saw;
Like the cloud-loving eagle's cliff-built nest,
Secure appearing, inaccessible:
And, mingled with them, as they nearer drew,
Thick-crowded hosts, with waving gonfalons,
Their coming, as with welcome glad, to hail.

With trumpet-challenge then, and loud acclaim,
Their greetings sent they; and, in blast as fierce
Of trumpets, and a great defiant shout,

210

Ere long, their answer heard. But, when the sun
Was sinking,—near the mountain-base arrived;
Their camp they pitched: with food and wine their strength
Recruited: their worn limbs from cumbrous mail
Released: then watch-fires kindled; sentries placed;
And, with confiding hearts, retired to sleep.

This when the Medes beheld,—their armour, too,
Aside they put: their watch-fire piles upheaped;
But kindled not: their sentries, also, placed;
And, with like confidence, lay down to rest.

All now was still; both armies soundly slept.
But Abdolonimus, with burning thoughts
Consumed, slept not, nor closed at all his eyes.
Before him, as he lay, distinct to view,
The myriad watch-fires of the foe appeared;
The countless tents, amid their ruddy blaze,
Like fiery pyramids glowing; and the flash,
At intervals, from burnished helm, or shield,
Of slow-paced sentry. Tossing, long he lay,
Restless and angry; but, at length, arose,
And to Belesis hastened: briefly spake;
Then straightway, treading swiftly, to the cave
Of their great leader. Sleepless him he found:
His thoughts made known:—permitted, thither called
To council the chief captains;—and, at once,
Before them standing, bluntly thus began.

“I talk not to you of your rest disturbed;
For which of us, the audacious foe so nigh
Beholding, can his eyes in slumber close?
What, then! so lightly of us deems he now,
That, insolently, at our very foot,
His tent he pitches, and lies down at ease?
And shall he thus, no better lesson taught,
Till morn dream undisturbed; and to our face
Shake then his banner; and, with gibe, and laugh,
Mock at, deride, defy us to the field?
And shall we here, then, like a feeble flock,
Pent up, and trembling at the wolf without,
Patient and helpless, their assault await?

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Or, rather, shall we not, ourselves the wolves,
On them go down, and rend the bloody prey?
But this the moment is, that of our course
We must determine; either now to strike,
Or timidly wait the stroke: for, when again
Shall such occasion court us to attack?
In heavy slumber, after long fatigue,
The foe reposeth; and his strength is spent.
Our hosts, by rest and generous food sustained;
Active, and vigorous, might an easy prey
Make of them, worn, and sleeping: and the strife
By this one blow, perchance, for ever end.
Resolve then. Shall we now our slumbering host
In silence wake; in silence to the plain
Conduct; unlooked for, then, upon the foe
Burst, and destroy; or shall we, to our beds
Again retiring, patiently the mock,
And hissing of our enemy abide?
Speak now who will; but briefly; for the hour
To deeds, or sleep; not idle talk, invites.”

So he; on all around, with fire-bright eye,
Impatient glances flinging. With swift step,
Then, for a moment, to the cavern's mouth
Advancing, toward the illumined camp he looked:
Smote on his thigh; and, with a face inflamed
Returning, his left hand upon his spear,
With hard grasp, leaned; and, to the deep-toned voice,
And accent grave, of the majestic priest,
Attentive listened: for Belesis now,
With thoughtful brow, and gesture dignified,
Forth stepping, thus to him the first began.

“Justly, O king! thou, with the foremost here,
Battle may'st counsel; for, than thine, no arm
More terrible and rapid in the field.
Nor the hot zeal that thee so well becomes,
With cold speech adverse would I seek to quench:
Rather myself from colder natures need
Allayment of the fire that in my breast
Reason severe and active scarce controls.

212

Yet do thou patiently attend me now;
And, what thou hear'st, revolve. In sleep profound,
Subdued, and helpless, by long travel worn,
Our foe thou deemest; and his pleasant rest
In the death-void would'st close. Small thanks from him
Albeit deserving—yet, to us, such end
A good important,—by all laws of war
Sanctioned,—must still be held—attainable.
But, what if all this seeming recklessness
Be but a wily stratagem; our feet
Within the snare to lure; while, bent ourselves
On sage designs; to our insidious foe
A mock we may become? The smoothest stream
Is oft the deepest: 'neath the calmest brow,
Lurks oft the fiercest fury. When the foe,
Smiling, his sword-hilt offers to your hand;
Heed then the dagger's thrust. A cunning feint
May this not be,—to ruin tempting us?
Or, if indeed they sleep; not unprepared
For sudden strife, be sure; nor to surprise
Obnoxious. On their myriad watch-fires bright,
Cast round thine eye: not of an idle foe,
Or foolish, tokens this: and hark! the voice
Ascending of the watchful sentinel.
Not upon these, as on a drunken man
Heavily sleeping, may ye, unperceived,
With step though stealthy, fall. Behoves us then,
Ere on a path so perilous we tread;
Deeply to ponder. Brave art thou, O king;
And to thy foes a terror: brave are ye,
And strong in battle, valiant captains all:
Nor, with the strongest of our enemies,
Singly, the fight need fear: but, where is he,
That with Heaven's chosen champion can compare,
Godlike Arbaces? Think ye that ourselves,
Him lacking, twice all day in equal fight,
'Gainst foe unequal as this foe, had stood?
Of our own strength I speak,—the Powers Divine
Aloof beholding; nor to either side

213

Might giving from above: for, of a truth,
Even to an infant's arm, the victory
O'er all earth's legions might the gods decree,—
So willed,—nor of man's valour can have need.
But, not with hand direct, and visible,
Thus work they: nor, by disproportioned means,
Our task to accomplish, may we justly hope.
The head, then, and the arm, of all our host
Now lost to us; not, as in battle past,
May we stand confident: nor wise were we,
So feebled, risk of further ill to tempt,—
No 'vantage great inviting. But, secure
In this our fortress biding for awhile;
Our baffled foe perchance,—us obstinate
Beholding,—to the city may return;
The mark for laughter: or if, desperate,
Even in our stronghold he should dare the war;
A bitter lesson might he soon be taught;
His loss, and our advantage: which to hope,—
Patiently waiting here,—not wholly vain,
Or idle, can be held. Our chief, meantime,—
The gods consenting,—from this couch of pain,
And weakness, to full vigour soon restored,—
Again in arms resistless going forth,
Them may assault, retreating: or, perchance,
Yet lingering, in night-onset may destroy:
Undreaded, haply, when, by long resolve
The fight to shun, we, of accustomed care,
And watchful guard, shall make them negligent.”

Still spake Belesis, when, from off the couch
His languid head uplifting, with faint tone,
To him Arbaces; “Take not thought of me:
For twenty thousand arms more strong than this,
God may command among you. If the fire
Doth in your bosoms glow,—give it free vent;
Nor my quenched ardor heed. To rash assault
I counsel not: but, all else favoring you,
Let not the host,—by captains such as these
Led, and sustained,—of this one weakened arm
Take note; but, calling on the gods, go forth.”

214

So saying, to the couch again he sank:
But on the priest his bright eye keenly fixed;
His words awaiting.

Toward the Mede, one step
Belesis moved; and, gently bending, thus:
“Prince! wise and noble, as in combat brave!
My thoughts unuttered yet,—unto the close
Reserved,—nor ardent less than thine,—now hear.
Not wholly from the onset to refrain,
My counsel is; but from assault ill weighed;
Rash, and presumptuous: for if, verily,
All other circumstance the attempt invite;
If, of a truth, this seeming sleep is sleep;
Real, and reckless all of consequence;
Then, surely, not such 'vantage for attack
Should we neglect, even though our mightiest arm
To lead us on, we lack. But, real sleep,
Or feigning, who may tell? for, where is he
Who, holding life as nought, yon blazing camp
Will dare to explore. With black dart threatening him,
Death would behind him stalk. Once seen, he dies!
Yet, through those watchful sentinels, unseen,
Spirit alone could pass.”

“The man ye seek,
Is here,” said Azareel, before the priest
Promptly advancing; “I their camp, alone,
Fearless will walk: and of this doubt, ere long,
Resolve you: nor, 'gainst cause like this, my life
An instant balance.”

Even while he spake,
With gleaming eye, Rabsaris started forth,
And grasped him by the arm: “Nay, nay,” he cried;
“Alone thou shalt not; I the peril share.
One falling—haply may the other 'scape,
And bring back tidings.”

With a quick applause
The captains answered. But the wounded prince,
To both his hands outstretching, in few words,
Warm praise bestowed: to ceaseless vigilance

215

Exhorted, and firm soul: their enterprise
To Heaven commended; and bade speed them on.

With haste, in armour dark, each warrior then
His body cased: with leathern helm unplumed,—
Not gleaming to betray, yet strong to guard,—
His head defended: next, the sword girt on:
The shield, dull-hued; two spears, with lustre dulled,—
For action ready, in his right hand, one,
One in his left reserved,—each, lastly, took;
Then, after farewell brief, with spirit high,
The perilous path 'gan tread.

Throughout the camp,
The leaders; meantime, with a noiseless zeal,
Went swiftly; and the captains, in degree
Nearest themselves, awakened: these the next:
So on throughout the whole: and this the word
Each to the other gave: “For onset arm;
But silent as the dead: then, armed, abide;
And wait the whispered sign. And, when ye march,
Let no shield ring; no loosely hanging sword
Clash on the greaves; nor let a tongue be stirred.”

Such word, from man to man, through all the camp
Spread quickly: and, ere long, at every side
The sword was girt; the helm was on the head;
The armour donned: spear, dart, bow, battle-axe,
For their grim work all waiting eagerly.

But Azareel, meantime; and, at his side,
Rabsaris, gaunt and grim as famished wolf;
With swift, but cautious footsteps to the plain
Descended; and the Assyrian camp drew near.

Gloomy the night was; not a star appeared.
On the white tents shone red the watch-fire's glow;
But doubly dark was darkness in their shade.
With stealthy step, the light avoiding still,
Along their way they glided. Everywhere
All seemed in rest profound: no sound was heard,
Save the low moan, and crackling of the fires;
Or drowsy tones of wearied sentinels,
Basking at ease around them. Whispering then,
Rabsaris to his comrade sternly thus.

216

“What hinders now that even to the tent
Of the detested tyrant we go on;
And, by one dagger-thrust, the contest end?
To him what honor owe we; who ourselves
Foully dishonors? Hath he not the price
Of blood,—by open, or by secret stroke,—
Upon the head of our most godlike chief,
Shamefully placed; and half way down the pit
So plunged him; yea, perchance into its depths?
For now his life is but as frailest web,
Strained by the wind; that any breath may break:
Were it not justice, then, on his own head
Like measure to deal forth? . . . Why pausest thou?
Wilt thou in this thing aid me; or depart?”

To him then Azareel; with gentle tone
Persuasive; softly whispering, thus replied:
“I marvel not, my friend, that in thy breast,—
With sense of wrong for ever burning,—rise
Black fumes of vengeance: neither to condemn,
Nor to approve them, speak I. But, with heed,
Consider now the attempt; and what the ills;
Not unto thee alone, but unto all;
And to our glorious cause, may thence ensue.
Far in the camp already have we pierced;
And our return should hasten: for our friends
Anxiously wait us; and, with arms prepared,
Expect the victory which, by our delay,
Wholly may 'scape them: but the royal tent
We have not seen; and through this spacious camp
All night may roam; yet, at the morn, return,—
Thy grain of gold unfound; and the rich mine,
Wealth offering to us all, for ever lost.
But, stood the tent even now before our eyes;
Think not, as heretofore, a sleepy watch,
By stealth to pass: or, were that peril 'scaped,—
The royal tent attained,—the thirsty steel
Steeped in the bosom of thine enemy;
And thy revenge all slaked,—what then? Reflect.
Surely so sense-bereft thou canst not be;
Thou, wise and prudent erst; 'mid loftiest minds

217

Conspicuous; and for truest wisdom famed,—
So passion-darkened never canst thou be;
That deed like this; as 'twere some petty theft
Wrought in the dark, while the tired shepherd sleeps;
Unseen, unpunished, thou may'st hope to act!
Foiled, or successful; equally, be sure,
Alarm must follow: nor our lives alone
The penalty: but, on this great emprise,—
So goodly in its promise seeming now,—
Ruin complete must fall. Without delay,
Then backward let us hasten: and, perchance,
Thy single purpose, with our general one,
May easier be accomplished: for the king,
In turmoil of night-battle, likelier far
His end to meet, than from thy secret blow.”

But, by his words unmoved; immoveable:
Chained to his purpose: to all consequence
Heedless, or blind: upon his destined prey
Intent as hungry Boa; whom no sound,
No sight, how terrible soe'er, can chase,—
His deadly eye once fixed,—Rabsaris thus;
With quivering finger grimly pointing on;
After brief silence, sternly answered him.
“Look there! Dost see it? In yon gorgeous tent
My answer read; nor longer strive to sway,
Whom even the warning gods would warn in vain.
Yet rather they, methinks, my steps impel,
Than bid me shun the path: for, on my soul
A force is now that, as with cords of steel,
Doth draw me: and more easily could stone,
Dropped from the precipice, its fall arrest,
And upward rise again,—than could these feet,
From yon pavilion, once beheld, turn back.
Madness perhaps; but there the cause, the cure!
Thou, meantime, to our friends with speed return;
That, what this hand begins, may theirs complete.
Awhile from the great banquet will I hold;
So, whatsoe'er my fate, your purpose still
May onward to success. Farewell, my friend:
Perchance for aye, farewell.”

218

With urgent words,
Though few—in vain the sorrowing, angry chief,
Strove to dissuade him: with strong caution, then,
That rash attempt unto the last to stay;
The solemn farewell, and embrace, returned;
And, mutely breathing unto Heaven a prayer
That not, from this wild deed, upon their hopes,
So fair in blossom, might the blast descend;
His backward path 'gan tread.

But his return,
Not, like his coming, unobstructed found:
The now more watchful sentries to avoid,—
Low couching in the shadow of the tents,
Impatient lay he oft; with bitterest thoughts
The time consuming.

But the plain, at length,
He passes; climbs the hill; the cave's wide mouth,
Dimly illumed, beholds; and tall, dark forms,
That throng the entrance.

'Tis for him they watch:
His footstep 'tis they listen. More and more
Distinct it sounds: his rapid breathings, soon,
Steal on their ears: all hearts beat anxiously;
All eyes are strained to see him. He arrives:
Panting, red-browed, and fiery-eyed, he stands
Among them; and with hurried utterance speaks.
Rejoiced they hear: they question,—he replies.
Each to his post, disperse the leaders then.
Light falls the foot,—the voice in whisper speaks,—
Each heart beats high,—each limb with strength is filled.

Meantime, upon his errand perilous,
Gloomy as starless night, Rabsaris went:
And, ever from the watch-fire's glaring eye
Holding aloof, within his stormy heart,
Thus, creeping on, communed. “The fatal hour,
For which my soul so long hath burned, is come.
At length the atoning punishment shall fall;
The hate of years in his rank blood be slaked! . . .
But my hour, too, it is; for not alone
Will his foul spirit pass,—and what of that?

219

Shrink I at thought of death? Why, what is life;
That longer I should wish it to endure?
Have I not nightly with a throbbing brain
Upon my couch lain down? have not my dreams
Been agony? have I not risen as one
Who, to endure the torture, arms himself?
When, since that morn accurst, exultingly
Hath my heart said, ‘this day shall I be glad?’
When hath the food seemed pleasant to my taste:
When hath the harp, or song, delighted me?
When have the morning, and the dewy eve,
Seemed lovely in my sight? when, to mine eye,
The daughters of the land been beautiful?
And fear I, then, to bid the world adieu?
What have I seen, or thought of, since that day;
Save the abhorrëd deed, and the revenge?
The deed is done; the vengeance is at hand!
I shall behold him die! I shall exult;
And whisper in his deafening ear her name!
But then—what then? . . . . I reck not!”

Darkly thus;
Still gliding in the shadow of the tents;
With his stern soul he questioned. Save the talk
Of drowsy sentry, by the fire outstretched;
The whisper, and the tinkle of the brands;
No sound he heard; no sign of life beheld.

But now again the wide and lofty tent;
Long from him hidden, caught his ranging eye:
Light was within it. Starting hurriedly,
Breathless he stood, and listened;—for there came
A harp's faint music, first; and, soon, a voice
That sang; a woman's gentle voice. The tones—
He knew not wherefore—made his blood run cold.
Within himself then thus: “What shall I now?
The tyrant is awake:—revels, perchance,
With wassailers around him: and no arm,
So fenced, could reach him. . . . . Yet one stroke, perchance,
Might I not strike? one blow? I ask no more. . . . .
But how, unseen, may I the tent approach?
Far from the rest apart it stands: the guards

220

Not in the shade to escape, as heretofore,
Can I hope now: and, if beheld, what else
Than death immediate waits me? And yet no:
Far off removed, around a watch-fire's blaze,
In talk they stand; nor that way look at all.
If through this wide space, then, no foot should roam,
In safety may I pass; and gain the door:
There, unseen, lie, and listen. What if found?
No matter! Come what fate soe'er may come,
I quail not now. To slay, or to be slain,
This night my doom is. Fearless I go on.”

Resolving thus, upon his knees he sank,—
Flat then to earth; and, serpent-like, crawled on.
Pausing at times, slowly he raised his head,
And listened; now a voice; a footstep now,
As if approaching, heard; yet, undismayed,
By slow degrees, scarce breathing, still crept on;
Till, from the tent within few spear-lengths come,
Again, but loud and clear, the harp he heard.
The tune was one that, in her happy years,
Azubah oft had sung. His heart beat quick;
He thought of days long gone. A voice, at length,
Sang to the harp: wildly he started up;
It was his daughter's! With clenched hands, and teeth
Hard fixed; stiff as a brazen statue, there
Awhile he stood. The voice was soft and sweet
As, to the desert wanderer, the sound
Of rippling brook at noon. His limbs relaxed;
He sank upon the earth in agony.
But the song ceased; again Rabsaris rose.
With bent knee, step by step, he went. No eye
Beheld him; no ear heard. More nigh he drew:
He stood beside the tent. His deadly foe,
And him, betwixt, sole separation now,
That thin and trembling screen. With sudden blow,
To burst upon him, his deep hate impelled:
But caution stayed him; for again the harp
Was touched; and two soft, dove-like voices sang
A strain of melting sweetness. As they ceased,
Another, and a deeper voice was heard.

221

Rabsaris shrank, yet listened eagerly.
In soft, and slumberous tone, the monarch thus:
“Sleep comes upon me. Ephah, to thy couch:
Thou, too, Abiah: but a little while
Stay thou, Azubah; and, with softest songs,
Bring to my rest kind dreams: for, on my soul
A darkness gathers; nor with cheering wine
Dare I dispel it now.”

The parting words,
The light withdrawing steps, Rabsaris heard;
And drew the thirsting sword: yet doubtful stood;
If, through the tent, with slashing stroke, at once,
Wide entrance he should make; and instantly,
The sure alarm despising, do the deed,—
Or if, till on his foe should sleep descend,
Calmly await: then, through the entrance steal;
And the deep, deadly, noiseless, blow let fall.

So pondering while he stood—with low, sweet tone,
Anxious and loving, thus his daughter spake.
“Shall I not call thy guards around thee now?
A thousand ways may danger find thee here.
Darkness and silence may the traitor tempt:
A foe—who knows? may from the hills descend.
I pray thee, then, not thus defenceless sleep:
Some evil surely threatens; for my blood
Runs chill; and obscure dread makes thick my breath.”

“Have thou no fear:” he answered soothingly;
“Kings are with glory, as with lightning, armed,
To wither up the traitor. Nor, though hence
A little space removed,—unmindful stand
Our watchful guardians. Danger is there none.
Not nearer,—thy fond voice of love to list,—
May I permit them: sing thou freely then:
Yet with thy softest tones: and be the harp
Sweet handmaid only to thy queenly voice.”

He ceased: the strings were touched; the song arose.
Gently his shield and spear upon the earth
Rabsaris laid:—into its sheath the sword
Slid noiselessly:—with soft tread glided on:—
Before the door of the pavilion stood.

222

Toward the low talking sentries then he looked:
No eye beheld him: the thin silken screen,
Aside, with slow, firm hand drew: no ear heard:
He passed within the tent.

On silken couch;
Purple, and starred with gold, the king reposed.
His eyes were shut; his countenance was pale.
Before him; but not near; Azubah sat;
O'er the harp bending; and her lulling song,
Like a sweet perfume, breathing. As a stone,
Fixed stood Rabsaris; in his hard-clenched hand,
A dagger lifting: like hot coals his eyes;
His face unearthly white. The song was one
Himself had sung to lull her infancy:
He could not move. At every pause, deep sighs
She heaved: and faintly, once, his name breathed forth:
His heart was softened. But the hated foe
Was now within his reach: a leap; a blow;
And all would be accomplished. Calmly lay
The unsuspecting king; upon his hand,
His right cheek pillowed. What could save him now!
A robe of ruby silk, sole mail he wore;
Sole shield, the diamond buckle on his breast.
Still as a sleeping infant lay he there:
And o'er his face, by some light fancy moved,
A smile began to gather; when, his breath
Hard drawing; gnashing fiercely his bared teeth;
Forward Rabsaris rushed. Azubah heard,—
Shrieking, sprang up—flew on,—with desperate grasp,
Fixed on his arm,—in frantic agony clung;
And the blow baffled.

Shouting angrily,
Leaped up the king;—with left hand on his wrist,
The right upon his throat, the assassin seized;
And, struggling, held him, till into the tent
Burst the scared guard,—from the blood-thirsting hand,
The dagger wrenched; and, with o'ermastering strength,
Fixed as in fetters held him.

On the couch,
Azubah, a few steps retiring, leaned,

223

Exhausted, trembling: for her father's eye;
Though yet she knew him not; into her soul,
With a strange power had pierced. Faint as to death,
With feeble step, then toward the inner tent
She tottered. White hands, quivering, at the door
Tenderly caught her; and she passed within.

Sardanapalus marked her not;—his eye
Fixed on the guards,—whom, with a crushing scorn,
And stern voice, he rebuked, “Thus, then, your king
Do ye defend? thus vigilantly watch;
That, to the murderer's foot, the door is left?
The weak hand of one woman, in this hour,
Hath to Assyria's king been better help,
Than all your useless weapons. But, despatch!
Bind the wretch hard—and take him to the death.
Yet stay; and let me look upon his face.”

So speaking, in his hand he took the lamp;
And, on the face of his old enemy—
His friend yet older—its full lustre poured.
Rabsaris, sternly calm, the gaze endured;
And on the questioner his eye of fire,
Undimmed, bent also. Underneath that look,
The monarch shuddered; yet his search pursued:
And, as each feature o'er and o'er he traced,
In low tone thus: “What horrid wretch is this?
The countenance disturbs me. In a dream
Have I beheld—or in my infancy—
That haggard visage? Somewhere have I—ha!—
Take off his helmet: take away his arms:
Loose then; and leave him with me: for alone
Will I have speech with him. When I shall call,
On the instant come: till then, at distance wait.”

In silence yet awhile the monarch stood;
On that gaunt form, and wasted countenance,
Intently looking: then, with low stern voice,
Thus spake: “Art thou Rabsaris?”

“Thou hast said;”
Curtly the chief replied; and, flash for flash,
Returned eye-lightnings; as in silence long,
Each on the other gazed. At length the king:

224

“Is this shrunk form the bold, and buoyant youth,
Whose soul was joyous as the rising lark?
What hideous lines disfigure the gaunt face!
Gray-headed, too? Why, scarcely more than mine,
Thy years! Am I like thee, then, grim to sight?
And can the flatterer have persuaded me
That in the eye of woman I am still
Of aspect fair, and goodly! Tell me true;
Twice murderer! for thou, with pleasing lies,
Canst never flatter: say—am I like thee;
Gaunt, withered, ugly, hollow-eyed, and grim;
Gray-haired, and old?”

To him, with bitter tone,
Rabsaris: “Execrable tyrant! FRIEND!
Ay,—grimmer, gaunter, uglier far thou art!
Mine of the body; thine is of the soul!
Even as the Dead Sea apple art thou, king;
Fair to the eye, and goodly; but, within,
Abhorrëd nauseousness!”

With placid smile,
To him the monarch: “Yet thou hast my thanks:
Fair to the sight, thou sayst: it is enough:
The eye of woman see'th not the soul.
Not for the wealth of all the East, twice told,
The hideous thing that thou art, would I be.”

Upon his words, fiercely Rabsaris broke:
“That which I am, tyrant! thyself hast made:
False! sensual! selfish! hateful, that thou art!
If ugly, gaunt, and withered, ere my time;
By thee, accursëd! was the fire blown up,
That hath consumed me. What hath life for me?
Food cannot nourish me; nor pleasure please;
Nor love delight me! I am as the tree
That standeth in the desert: on whose leaves
No rain can fall; no gentle dew descend!”

He groaned, and smote his breast. To him the king;
“The fitter, then, art thou to be cut down:
Nor long shalt wait. This night thou art to die!”

Firmly, defyingly, Rabsaris thus:

225

“This night, then, shall I close a living death!
Yet even on this not too securely count;
For, 'twixt the lifting of the vengeful sword,
And its down falling, kingdoms may be lost;
Kingdoms be won.”

With haughty tone he spake,
And smile contemptuous, that suspicion dark
Woke in the king: “What sayst thou?” he exclaimed;
“What mean thy words,—a kingdom lost, or won?
Thou threatenest. Ho! approach!”

Prompt at the call,
Sprang in the guard: “Jehoram,” cried the king,
“To Salamenes, swift as antelope.
Bid him a numerous power of foot and horse
Make ready for the battle. Night-attack
Is threatened: be the foe in their own toils
Caught, and destroyed. In silence like the grave,
Let him the soldiers lead; and right and left
Of the hill gorge dispose them. Thence the foe,
If issuing, will descend. Yet, not at once,
Let him leap on them: but, till of their force
Good part hath passed, in closest ambush wait:
Then, with loud cries, fall on. But, mark thou this:
If sound of enemy stirring shall be heard,
Let instant tidings to the king be sent;
And throughout all the camp; that every man
May be aroused, and ready.”

To the earth
Jehoram bowed, and went: and thus the king,
Unto Rabsaris turning, spake again;

“Thou smilest not as before. Ha—hast thou, then,
Unwittingly the counsel of thy friends
Betrayed unto me? Yet, to thee what loss?
Whether henceforth to them come victory,
Or utter rout,—what matters it to thee;
Who, ere a sword be drawn, shalt surely die?
Said I not to thee, Reptile! ‘on the day
That thou returnest, thou shalt die the death?’
Yet, with the murderous weapon in thy hand,
Hast thou come hither; serpent-like hast crawled

226

At midnight to my tent; and at my heart
The death-stroke aimed! Ungrateful! Never more
The light of morning hope thou to behold!
Mercy to thee, black traitor that thou art,
Were in myself a treason. With what paint
Canst thou thy foulness hide? with what fair words,
One hour of life re-buy?”

To him, with scorn,
Rabsaris answered: “Monster! life, from thee,
Were but a doubled curse. What thou hast won,
Take while thou may. With the strong arm could I
Resume it; and, defying thee, live on;
Then would this breath be precious to me still;
For still might justice strike thee. On this act,
My life I waged; even as a thing unprized,
Against the priceless vengeance; and 'tis lost.
Yet, mighty king! not overmuch rejoice.
Against thee is the doom of Heaven gone forth:
The sceptre shall be taken from thy hands:
Thy city shall be ashes; and to hell
Shalt thou go down, amid the kings of earth;
Who even now expect thee; and rejoice;
And clap the hand; and make their mock of thee.”

In fury spake he still, when thus the king,
With harsh tone, fiercely stamping, on him broke:
“Babbler, and fool! thine insolence shall cease!
To hell go thou the first; there, with the rest,
Mock also, if thou wilt; but mock not here.”

So he, and called aloud: the entering guards,
Then thus addressed: “Haste; take the traitor forth,
To instantaneous death: the sword; the cord;
The axe; no matter which. Away with him!
No word allow.”

His large, undaunted eyes,
Like to hot fires, Rabsaris on the king
Turned, as he spake: in silence to the guard
His arms extended; and, with slow, firm step,
Was passing forth; when, from the inner tent;
Pale, and disordered; with wide eyes aghast,
And cheeks tear-drenched; shrieking, Azubah rushed;

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Dropped down: with grasp convulsive, on the knee
Of her stern father fixed, and cried aloud;
“Oh king be merciful! on me, on me,
Be merciful! With his, my life must end!
He is my father: I his only child:
He must not; shall not die!”

In agony
She pleaded; to the king her pale bright face
Uplifting, and one agitated hand.
But from his knee Rabsaris shook her off;
“Away! unduteous wretch!” he cried; “from thee
Shall I my life receive? Death better far!”

To him nought spake she; but, uprising, flew;
And fell before the king. “Mercy!” she shrieked;
“Have mercy! oh, have mercy! You from him
I saved; oh, let me now save him from you!
Mercy! have mercy! or my heart will burst!”

She ceased; for agony her utterance stopped:
Her lips moved still; her bosom rose and fell;
Her starting eye-balls flashed a trembling light;
Her whole frame quivered; but her tongue was mute.

Not less the eloquence of passion spake.
With husky voice Sardanapalus thus:
“Take him away; I cannot bid him die:
Or not to-night. Secure; but harm him not:
No answer: take him hence.”

One gentle look
On his pale daughter the stern father bent;
Then, without word, withdrew.

Sank on his couch
The softened king. Azubah, on the earth,
His knees embracing, lay: in tears and sobs
Incessant, the keen anguish of her heart
Outpoured; and, ever and anon, a prayer
For pardon, scarcely audible, sighed forth.

An hour of heart-voiced supplication passed;
Yet spake the king no word. But, suddenly,
Upon his feet he sprang. “Hush! hark!” he said;
“I hear the tramp of horse. This way they come!
The foe, then, is descending from the hill!

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Bring me my armour. Ha! by earth and heaven!
The battle is begun!”

From out the tent,
Yet speaking, flew he, and sent forth his voice.
“Blow out the trumpets! heap the fires anew!
Let us behold our enemies. To arms!
Blow out the trumpets; blow!”

Scarce had he ceased,
When its sharp blast a single trumpet blew:
A hundred caught it; and ten thousand joined.
Through the long range of mountain, clang on clang,
Rang out the battling echoes. From their graves,
As if the dead of ages had arisen,—
Such, suddenly, the sound, the multitudes,
That on the startled night and silence burst.
In haste, meantime, the king his armour donned:
And every captain hastily his arms
Put on; and every soldier: for the din
Of thickening conflict pealed against the sky.

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BOOK THE TWELFTH.

Accursëd to the Medes, as to himself,
That fatal hour when,—mad with fiercest hate,—
His private wrong on one man to avenge,
Rabsaris had the weal of nations risked!
For, when, with numerous valiant infantry,
The Arabian king in silence from the hill
Descended to the onset,—ready stood;
Unheard, unthought of, and invisible;
With Salamenes many a legion strong;
Near to the mountain's gorge, on either hand,
Ranked for assault, and burning to fall on.

When, therefore, of the Medes good part had passed;
With light step tripping on, and cautiously,—
From both sides, in same moment, on them fell,
With cries and clash of arms, the ambushed host;
And with confusion whelmed them, and dismay,—
Themselves assailed, who to assail had come,—
That, in a great amazement,—man 'gainst man
In hideous tumult crushing,—they shrank back!

At once the trumpet-signal of recall
The Arabian king bade sound: and, like storm-wave
From steep, rough shore recoiling,—with wild din,
Sword 'gainst sword clashing, spear encountering spear,
Backward they hurried.

But the king, erelong,
On a fleet steed careering, came, and cried,
“Let them not so escape us: heap the fires,—

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Sling every man his shield upon his back,—
Rend the pine boughs for torches,—sword in hand,
Up to the mountain then; and, in his hold,
Destroy the affrighted dragon.” At the word,
The soldiers shouted: and, in little while,
Flamed high the camp-fires,—the pine forest rang.

Meantime, Arbaces, on his restless couch,
With head supported on his feeble arm,
For din of onset listening, long had lain.
Dumah beside him, with Abida, sat:
But, at the opening of the cave, Abdeel
Stood, and looked forth; and that which he beheld,
From time to time spake out.

“Distinctly gleams
The distant plain; but, at the mountain's foot,
Hangs midnight blackness. . . . Ha! they clash their arms,
And shout, to wake the dead! Too soon! too soon! . . .
By Heaven, they sound retreat!”

“Oh, merciful gods!”
Exclaimed the Mede, half springing from his couch;
“That madman then hath failed; and all is lost!
They have laid ambush; and our hosts will fall,
Like deer before the hunters! Shameful flight
Is all their hope; nor that may long avail:
This stronghold will itself weak fence be found.
The furious king, in frenzy of success,
Would storm us, though a fortress of the gods
Had given us shelter. Mark me! Ere the morn,
Not solely sovereign here shall we remain:
But with our foes divided monarchy
Must share; or all resign. For prompt retreat
Must we prepare then, as inevitable.
If needed not, the preparation's lost,
And there an end. But, 'gainst a threatening ill,
Folly alone, not valour, shames to guard.
Haste then, Abida: take my signet: fly:
And, whatsoever captains thou may'st find
Unpressed by battle,—bid with instant speed,

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The tents, provisions, camels, oxen, wains,
O'er the eastern plain to move: the chariots, too,
And all the horse, here useless, bid them take.
There, at the mountain's foot, in firm array
Let them abide; and wait the battle's fate.
If from our hill-strengths driven to the plain,
They in our rear a strong defence will stand;
Ordered retreat ensuring, which were, else,
A flight disastrous. Haste. Call others on:
And, lest in darkness worse confusion rise,
Still, as ye run, bid kindle up the fires.
Fly swiftly; and return. But thou, Abdeel,
Say on: how goes the conflict? Righteous Heaven!
Forsake us not! Oh! misery! like a worm
Here to lie helpless; while a million swords
For the world's empire clash!”

So he; then sank
Exhausted on the couch, and groaned aloud.
Abida from the cavern flew: and thus,
The battle's course depicting, spake Abdeel.
“O'er all the plain the Assyrian camp-fires now
Fiercely are blazing. Multitudes I see,
In flaming armour pouring o'er the plain.
Like ocean glittering 'neath the ruddy sun,
The wide field flashes: like the ocean's roar,
Their clamors rise.

“At times, a sound I hear,
Like crash of branches. . . .

“Thousands of red lights
Are moving toward the hill.

“Ha!—now I see
They have rent the boughs for torches.—In his hand
Each soldier bears a branch of blazing pine.
They hurry toward the heights,—they shake the torch,—
They wave the sword:—like running flame they seem. . . .

“They climb the hill-side now. A very cloud
Of arrows, darts, and lances covers them;
Yet upward still they come.

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“Our watch-fires now
Blaze out upon the hills:—distinctly gleams
The battle-field.

“They cast their torches down:
Unneeded now.”

“Haste! bear me quickly forth!
With mine own eyes let me behold! Oh! God!
Hast thou no miracle, as oft of yore,
For those whom thou hadst chosen? Might not strength
As heretofore, yea doubled, to mine arm
Be given again; that in this holy cause
I might go forth to conquer? Misery! gall!
Death-bitterness! like a sick infant here
To toss the helpless hand, and moan, and fret,
When brave men rush to combat; earth the stake!
Oh! God! desert us not!”

Arbaces thus,
In torture of impatience, on his bed
Writhing, exclaimed: nor his physician's voice,
Dissuasive, would regard. Without the tent,
Him, therefore, on his couch the attendants bore;
Cautiously treading; and, as best they might,
In view of battle placed. With straining eye,
And hurried breath, he gazed,—his tremulous hand
Clenched, as the sword to grasp.

Still hotly raged
The conflict; and still upward, fierce as fire,
The Assyrians forced their way. The Mede, at length,
With agitated utterance, thus: “Abdeel,
Right in the thick of contest make thy way.
Seek there Belesis, and the Arabian king:
Tell them defence, at every cost, to make,
Till the high rocks be loosened. Three times, then,
Let trumpets sound; and every man ascend.
But, when all stand in safety, down the steep
Let the thundering ruin go. Away! away!”

Prompt at the word, the gallant youth withdrew:
And on the combat, with intensest gaze,
Soul-agonized, still looking, lay the Mede.

Sardanapalus, meantime, in attack

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The foremost ever, with incessant cries
Cheered on his soldiers; victory, honor, spoil,
And glory, promising. But havoc strange
On either side appeared; confusion dire:
Unordered multitudes, in shapeless fight
Commingling: friend, for foe, encountering oft:
These upward struggling; those, with furious charge,
Down bearing; spear, dart, sword, and axe, their work
Terrific plying; and the yell and cry
Of myriads to heaven's concave pealing up.

Yet still; though slowly, and with toil extreme,—
Like to the billows gaining on the strand;
Upward here rolling; there, with huge recoil,
Down sinking,—on their steep and difficult way
The fierce Assyrians pressed.

Beside the king,
Fought Salamenes: and, with sword and shield
Accoutred now; like a lithe leopard swift,
Upward to spring, or backward to retire;
The young and graceful Dara; even then,
'Mid all that fearful turmoil, of his love
Not quite forgetful. At the monarch's side
Vigilant moved he still: and many a blow,
For him designed, turned by.

But, to the king,
Oft Salamenes spake—from dangerous van
Of battle warning him. “Look up! look up!
They loose the rocks to hurl upon our heads!
Ere yet too late, retire. At once bid sound
The signal of retreat: destruction else,
Immense and horrible, will whelm us all.
See where on high the rebel prophet stands,
The fierce Belesis; by his priestly robes
Distinguished far: a flaming torch he bears;
And urges to the work. To right, and left,
Thousands, yea tens of thousands, on the heights
Brandish the bar of iron, and the axe!
Ruin will cover all, if swift retreat
Preserve us not! Oh! hearken to me now,
And wait not for destruction!”

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But in vain
Had Salamenes on the frantic king
Wise caution urged: still up, defying fate,
His course had he held on; and fate, perchance,
With thousands, met; but that against him, now,
Like a strong torrent from the mountain's side
Suddenly bursting; with resistless weight
Down drove, with levelled spears, a multitude,
Whom to withstand, not strength of giants of old
Would have sufficed them: backward, o'er and o'er
Rolling, went numbers: numbers, turning, fled.

Borne with the mass away,—like a proud steed,
Whom down the hilly road a ponderous car,
Spite of his arching neck, and firm placed feet,
Bears irresistibly,—the haughty king,
Foaming with fury, even to the plain,
Ere he the rush could stay, was forced along.
There hot encounter holding for awhile,
In turn he seemed prevailing; and in heart
Exulted; for the trumpets of the Mede
High over head, blew signal of retreat.
“They fly!” he cried; “pursue, and root them out!
Up to the hill-tops! up! away!”

Thus he,
Elated; and, in that dread trumpet-blast,
Knew not the voice of Death. Three times it blew;
And paused; and three times did the fiery king
Bid sound the answering signal of assault.
But, when the Median trumpets the third time
Had sounded; and their troops had gained the heights,—
The Assyrians close behind in hot pursuit,—
Flew on the terrible word, “Let go! let go!”

Rang then the iron bars,—the loosened rocks
Were lifted, and cast down. As by some force
Volcanic stricken, all the mountain shook.
A roll like thunder followed: sank the shouts;
Sank down the shield, the flashing sword and spear;
Battle was hushed! Aghast the Assyrians looked;
And saw the rocks descending. Shrieking loud,

235

“Fall down! fall down!” a myriad voices cry;
And myriads fall: but thousands, stiff with fear,
Stand mute; nor from the Terror coming on,
Their glaring eyes can turn. Down, down, with roar,
Crash, smoke, and fire—whirling and leaping high,
The giant fragments rush. Beneath their strokes,
Shudders the ground, as if by earthquake jarred.
Down, down! Great trees before their might are reeds!
Scoring the mountain's side as they go down,—
Through the close forest of bright-flashing arms,
Each leaves behind a death-track; a dark path
Whereon, like dust beneath the chariot wheel,
Shield, helmet, sword, spear, armour, man, lie crushed!

Far o'er the valley yet the lessening roll,
Like thunder dying off, awhile resounds;
Then ceases quite: and over all the field
A silence strange and terrible is felt.

A second rock-storm dreading from above,
Irresolute they stand; nor any man,
Which way to turn him, knows.

The king himself,
Down stricken, senseless for a brief time lay;
But rose unharmed; and, with yet fiercer heat,
His soldiers urged to onset: “Up again!
No moment lose! up! ere their devilish bolts
They can anew prepare! Blow, trumpets! blow!
Sound out the assault! Shiver your brazen tubes
With battle-blasts! On! on, Assyrians! on!
Up to the mountain! up!”

Rose then a cry
From all around him; by his voice and mien
To hottest frenzy fired. Through all the host
Ran on the deafening clamor: blast on blast
The trumpets sounded,—arms with hideous din
Clashed iron discord,—meteor-banners streamed,—
And, like chained madmen loosed, against the foe,
Despising death, together on they bore.
Still ever upward, with untiring rage,
Urged they their desperate way: the stone, the spear,

236

The arrow, or the dart, or threatening rock,
Deterred them not; for, in their hearts, the thirst
For vengeance burned; and fire was in their brain.

But, them to meet, as fiercely flew the Medes:
Man with man grappled: arm in arm entwined,—
Foot in foot locked,—breast against breast hard forced,—
Down over precipice, or steep abrupt,
By thousands, down they rolled.

So, fierce as flame,
The combat raged; and neither side prevailed.
But Salamenes to the king, at length,
Calmly thus spake: “Awful the struggle now!
Direful our loss! nor, 'gainst such vantage ground
Contending, can we hope the victory.
The camp-fires, also, of the enemy,—
Burned down, or haply with intention damped,—
Dull lustre give, that scarcely now their foe
Our soldiers can discern. Unequal strife!
For they at random may their weapons send
On us below, unfortressed; and some mark
To hit, can scarcely fail; while we, all night,
Upward 'gainst them, well guarded, may discharge
Dart, arrow, spear, in clouds; yet harm them not.
But let me now, retiring from the fight,
With a strong force far leftward climb the hill;
And, when they least expect it, on their flank
Burst like a hurricane: by the fourth hour hence
Might I be nigh upon them. Thou, meantime,
This hopeless contest cease: but, when again
Ye shall assault begin, then also we,
Unlooked for, will fall on. Astonished thus,
Terror will seize them—they will yield, or fly.”

Thus Salamenes; and to him the king,
Breathless awhile, and leaning on his sword;
Patiently listened. “Be it so!” he said;
“Away at once; and take what force thou wilt.
But think not that from glorious battle now,
Will I withdraw the soldiers; when their hearts
Are flame, and every nerve is strong as steel.
If we fight darkling, doth not even as we

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The enemy? But, by the mighty Bel!
We will a watch-fire kindle, that the field
Shall light, and burn not like a reed away!
The wind is northward; flame and smoke will pass.
Ho!—fire the forest! Run on, every man,
With flaming torch; and quickly will we make
A new sun rise; a night-sun of our own.”

To change his desperate purpose hoping not,—
At once, then, Salamenes turned, and went:
Yet, as he walked, a frequent glance cast back
On that terrific contest,—rock, and dell,
In lurid splendor,—and the raging hosts,
Like fiery foam on a dark sea of hell,
Tossing, and working.

At the king's command,
Shaking their torches, yelling franticly,
On toward the cedar forest, and the pine,
Thousands are speeding. . . . A thin vapour mounts—
A low flame gathers—rises.—Smoke, like clouds
That bring the tempest, all the forest top
In darkness wraps.—A moaning sound is heard,
A crackling, and a hiss.—Bursts, here and there,
A sheet of flame—sinks—flickers—bursts anew.

With roar incessant as of storm-swept deep,
In mighty volume streaming to the clouds,
Goes up, at length, the universal blaze.
The sky, like arch of red hot iron, glows:
Mountain, and plain, far as the eye can reach;
The camps, the battle, as beneath the sun,
Shine vividly. Terrific is the din:
The thunder-roaring of the flames; the crash
Of branch, and giant trunk; the roll and jar
Of rocks descending; the unceasing clang
Of armour, and the clamors of the hosts,
Horribly mingling, to the heavens go up.

The watchmen on the distant city wall
That uproar hear; and in the sky, amazed,
The wondrous splendor see. With crowds, anon,
The battlement is thronged: and, till the morn,
Marvelling they stand, and of the issue fear.

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Untired, and unrelaxing still, their strife
Both armies wage: yet ever upward press
The hot Assyrians, whom no danger now,
No enemy can daunt; so by the voice
Incited, and the valour of their king.

“This night,” cried he, incessantly, “this night
Shall all our labors crown: the sun no more
On the cursed rebel-banner shall arise!
On! brave men, on! To-morrow shall ye have
Joy, feasting, honor, spoil, and sweet repose.
Not now the fierce Arbaces need ye dread;
Soundly in death sleeps he. Up, valiant men!
Storm their strong places. Slay, and spoil! On! On!”

So he; and, by his words and fearless deeds,
To boundless frenzy urged,—things dangerous most
They laugh to scorn, and wildest acts essay.
They scale the heights: with those who hurl the rocks,
Maniac-like they struggle! O'er and o'er
Rolling; sheer down the horrid precipice,
Breast locked to breast, they go. The king himself,
On a high peak o'erbeetling awfully,
In blazing arms conspicuous, like the god
Of battle stands; and to the hosts below
Shouts; and points up; and urges the assault.

While yet in anguish on his couch he lay,
The fight o'erlooking, him Arbaces saw.
“Oh merciful gods!” he cried, “then all is lost!
See, Dumah, see! the tyrant hath himself
The first heights gained; and beckons those below!
But not alone, be sure: behind him close
Are myriads climbing; and by flight alone
May we destruction 'scape. And is this he?
Just heavens! is this the woman-dizened king?
The sensual, the effeminate, the vain?
Oh! were thy justice with thy courage matched,
The sword we might put up; and our just rights,
Even to thyself, against thyself, submit.
But, like the savage beast's thy valour is;
Thy justice, that of tiger, or of wolf!
Have ye no thunderbolt, protecting Powers,

239

To strike yon Pestilence! Arrow, dart, or stone,
Alighting on him there, might free the world!
They see him from below; they know him now:
Above the ceaseless roaring of the flames,
And crash and roll of rocks, his name resounds.
He hears it; still points up, and waves his sword.
Immortal gods! and is there none at hand
To grapple with him—when a lance's thrust,
A sword-stroke, or a pebble from the sling,
Might save the nations? Abdolonimus,—
Abiram—Azareel—where are ye all?
And thou, impetuous prophet? Ha! he comes!
Now, all disposing gods, be merciful!”

So he: nor word spake more; but breathlessly,
With pallid face, and starting eyes, looked on.

Distinct as in the sunlight all shines out.
Right toward the king, with rapid step, he sees
The fiery priest advancing; in his hand
A flaming lance, and on his arm the shield.
Nigher he draws; the monarch sees him not;
With voice, and waving sword, the troops below
Still upward urging. On the very brink
He stands: one blow might hurl him down. The priest
Within three spears' length of his enemy
Has reached; he stops; he lifts his lance; nor yet
The king perceives him. Why delays he, then?
Assyria's fate upon that stroke may hang:
Why lingers it? Unto his gods prays he?
No,—he hath warned his hated enemy.
Suddenly turns the king, and toward the foe
Springs onward: flies, then, like a lightning-flash,
The prophet's lance; strikes; glances; o'er the abyss
Far shoots. But see! back reels the king,—back,—back,—
Even to the very brink he reels,—he sinks;—
One foot o'erhanging the profound, he falls;—
An infant's thrust might end him. But again
He rises; on the very edge he stands:
The priest has drawn his sword; and, foot to foot,
They wage the dreadful fight. Spurned down the abyss,

240

Beneath the king's fierce tread, the fragments fly:
No inch can he retire: upon one yard
Of fragile rock, depends Assyria's doom.
Slowly he presses on; but, piece by piece,
Behind him sinks the ground that he had trod.
The throngs below, his danger have espied:
From tens of myriads, shrieks of horror rise.
He hears: with strength and rage renewed, springs on:
He bears his enemy back. On ampler field
They wage the fight.

In turn, unto the brink,
The priest is driven. With agony of heart
Arbaces looks: he breathes not: his pulse stops.
Belesis from his arm the shield casts off:
He springs upon the king: he grasps him round:
Himself and foe together, down the abyss
Struggles to hurl. Above the brink they bend:
On one foot balanced each, and one in air,
O'erhanging stand they. But the king prevails:
Backward he bears the priest: he casts him off:
Their swords and shields both gather; and the strife
On safer ground renew. But thousands now,
Medes and Assyrians mingled, toward them haste:
Tumultuous fight succeeds; and both are lost.

Breathed then anew the agitated Mede;
And on his couch sank backward. But, in haste,
Panting, and hot, came Japhet now; and thus,
With hurried accent, spake: “Oh prince, my words,
Painful to utter, as to hear, attend.
From Abdolonimus I come: the heights,
Against the enemy more fierce than fire,
Scarce keeps he: for the soldiers' hearts with dread
Begin to sink; and backward oft they look,
Flight meditating: then, lest ill befall,
He counsels thee, with all safe speed to move
Down to the eastern plain. No foot, meantime,
While in his soldiers lives one valour-spark,
Save with his heart's last drop, will he resign.”

Still Japhet spake, when, fiery eyed, yet pale,
Abida entered, and thus, breathless, spake.
“Oh prince! no longer is there safety here!

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The foe, unquellable as famished wolves,
Swarm up the mountain, and all check defy.
Belesis hither sends me to give note
Of peril coming, such as all our strength
May vainly oppose. Down to the eastern plain,
No moment lost, he urges thee to speed;
There safely wait the event. Oh prince beloved!
Yield to his counsel quickly—for, in truth,
Thee losing, all we lose: nor other end
Than ruin, and tenfold wretchedness, can hope.”

While thus Abida pleaded,—on the hills
His eye Arbaces kept: then, when he ceased,
Still looking forth, replied: “Small power, alas!
To choose remains unto us, if aright
I read the tokens: and, in fleetest speed,
Sole hope may live: for, either much I err,
Or on yon northern summits I behold
The gleam of legions coming; whom to 'scape,
May breath and limb task hard. Look forth, my friend;
Perchance mine eyes deceive me. What seest thou?”

To him Abida: “Doubtfully, I spy
What might a river be, or roughened lake,
To this hot cloud-vault glittering. Flash of arms,
Surely it seems not. Japhet, how to thee,
Shows that strange glimmer?”

“To my sight, as thine,”
The gentle youth replied, “a mountain stream,
To yon red fire-light glancing, it appears.
Yet, if such torrent . . . . .”

“Fly!” Arbaces cried;
“Speed to the captains: tell them that the foe
On the northern hills is coming. To the priest,
Abida; Japhet, to the Arabian king.
Speed like the falcon, or we all are lost!
Bid them, ere utterly o'erwhelmed, to turn;
Fight as they fly—yet hurry from the field.
Upon the eastern plain our chariots stand,
And horse, a strong defence. Away! away!”

Prompt at the word, sped forth the startled youths.
Once more Arbaces on the ominous hill

242

Looked steadily; then to his bearers signed:
Back in his litter sank: and to the plain,
By foe untroubled, swiftly was borne down.

Arrived—in mighty masses, deep, and broad—
A gleaming crescent, fronting the vast slope
Whereon alone, from rock and precipice free,
War's torrent might descend—the horse he found,
And chariots, prompt for action. Toward the east,
Morn yet scarce touched the sky; but, by the glare
Downward reflected from the fire-hued clouds,
All shone as with red daylight. Not a sound,
Throughout the martial multitude was heard.
With eager eyes, toward the hill-summit turned,—
In stern, yet awful mood the warriors sat;
And to that roar,—as of a blazing world,
Far distant flying,—and the bray of arms,
And hideous clamors, listened.

But their chief,
As he passed on, they knew; and bowed the head:
Oft of his followers asking anxiously,
How went the fight. He to the captains spake,
Of sure defeat forewarning: “Therefore send,
Faster to urge along the eastern plain,
The camels, oxen, and the loaded wains.

“But wider space yet, for the flying throng,
Betwixt the horse-ranks, and the chariots, leave;
Nor, while a single soldier in the rear
May still remain, your squadrons close for fight.
Call cheeringly when down the mountain side
Ye see the battle pour; that, nigh at hand,
The foe his danger, and our friends their help,
May know, and so demean them. 'Gainst pursuit,—
Their horse and cars far off,—till nigh on noon,
Need we not guard: when, therefore, through your ranks
The flight hath 'scaped; and ye, a bulwark strong,
Have drawn together; and the baffled foe
Backward hath turned,—then, let each charioteer,
Descending, from the out-worn infantry,
The wounded, and the weak, his vacant car
To the utmost fill: and let the horsemen, too,

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Alighting, place the wounded on their steeds;
Themselves, with hand upon the bridle still,
Patiently walking: so, in safe retreat,
And easy, for a while we may move on.
But, in pursuit when comes the enemy,
Then, from the steeds and chariots let the foot
Descend; and, with what speed they may, march on.
But let the cars and horse, at distance fit,
Behind abide, and keep the foe aloof.”

So he; and through the ranks the word was given.
Himself still onward went, lest, in the throng,
Evil might chance him; or himself to them
Evil might be, their path encumbering.

Ere long, upon the mountain's ridge was heard
Sound of quick-coming rout. In every sheath
The sword was loosened, every spear was grasped.
Like men, and steeds, and chariots, of hot fire,
In the red, shadowless light they stood—all eyes
Still on the hill-top fixed.

From end to end
Of its wide edge, anon, like the loose rack
That runs before the tempest—in thin groups,
Flying for life, came down the weaker rear.

The trumpet-signal of retreat, far off,
Faintly was heard; but every blast more loud:
And louder every instant was the tramp
Of multitudes advancing; clash of arms,
Outcries, and all the hurly of pursuit.

Soon were beheld the streaming gonfalons,
The flashing shields, the gleaming spears and helms:
And all the mountain's slope, at length, close thronged
With hosts, like foam down a great river swept.

Confused, but not in utter rout, they came;
Now speeding down,—now turning round to strike—
And now again descending.

But still grew
Direr the clamor, and the din of fight:
The sword-clash, and the smitten shield and mail,
Nearer, and louder, rang, Yet firmly still,
Held on the vanquished; till, on their left flank,

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Burst out new battle-thunder; and the name
Of Salamenes pealed against the sky.

Then from the Medes a cry of terror rose;
And, in precipitate flight—all order lost—
All rule unheeded—down the mountain side,
A living flood they poured.

When that they saw,
The expecting horsemen, and the charioteers,—
Even as Arbaces had commanded them,—
Above their heads high waving spear and sword,
Shouted incessantly,—the flying host
Encouraging; disheartening who pursued.

Down with disordered hurry, headlong down,
The routed myriads fled. Last in the throng,
Belesis, and the king of Araby,
'Gainst numbers hotly warring, step by step,
Face ever toward the foe, from fight retired.

But, through the ranks when all the rout had 'scaped,—
At trumpet-signal, promptly in their rear
The horse and chariots closed; and from assault,
Like a strong bulwark, fenced them.

Vainly strove
Assyria's king, against that iron wall
His wearied force to urge. To Dara then,
Who still beside him stood, with utterance quick,
At length he spake: “Haste, Dara; and thy speed,
Famed through the land, now to the utmost prove.
Fly to the camp: command that half the horse,
And half the chariots, hurry o'er the hill,
And instantly pursue. That done, choose out
Three trusty captains, with the swiftest steeds:
Bid them, as on the eagle's wings, to fly;
And, standing first in presence of the queen,
Rehearse this wondrous victory. Furthermore,
Thus let them say: ‘On the fifth morning hence,
Triumphant o'er his enemies, the king
Unto his great Earth-capital returns:
Be Nineveh prepared, his valiant hosts
With all due pomp to greet.’”

That heard, paused not

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The agile youth; but turned, and up the steep
Rapidly bounded.

Soon the trumpets blew,
Proclaiming victory: and with one great voice,
The army shouted; and their enemies
Held in derision. Then, for spoil, the camp
They ransacked; and with food, and wine, their strength
Refreshed. Among his captains sat the king;
And ate, and drank, before them: nor the cup
Spared he; for, in his pride of heart, he said,
“Am I not monarch over all the earth?
Are not mine enemies scattered as the dust!”

But, when the sun was high, he looked abroad
O'er the eastern plain; and far away beheld
The flying Mede; and, in a hot pursuit,
Assyrian cars and horse. Then more and more
His proud heart gloried. He his enemies mocked,
And said aloud, “Now, of a surety, all
Shall perish utterly! Meantime, two days
Will we repose; eat, drink, and take our fill;
And, on the third morn, toward the city turn.”
Then for a wine-cup calling, he looked round
Among the captains, and the circling host,
And with loud voice cried out, “Even as I drink,
So drink ye, every man, wine of the best;
And let your hearts be gladdened; for in you
Assyria's king is glorified.” Thus he;
And, at the word, up went a loud acclaim;
And every heart was joyful. So all day
The sound of feast and revelry was heard.
But, on the morrow, dust to dust, their slain
They to the earth committed; and, with dawn
Of the next morning, toward the city marched.

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BOOK THE THIRTEENTH.

Great was the glory of Assyria's king,
As, toward the city of his majesty,
Triumphant o'er his enemies he went.
To sound of warlike instruments, two days,
In slow, proud march the army moved; two nights
Upon the plain they feasted, and reposed.

But, on the third morn, when the warrior-sun,
Victor o'er night and darkness riding forth,
His banner-clouds in the orient bade uplift,—
Then, splendid upon earth as he in heaven,
Sardanapalus, with his glittering train,
Triumphant entrance in great Nineveh,
The glad, expecting city, rose to make.

On sight more gorgeous never sun looked down.
A myriad gonfalons of bright hue streamed;
A myriad trumpets rang out victory!
Blazed the bright chariots; the gold-spangled steeds,
Beneath their flaming riders proudly trod;
Flashed helm, and shield of gold, and dazzling mail;
And, with unnumbered martial instruments
Accompanied, unto the mighty Bel,
And to Sardanapalus, king of kings,
Triumphal hymns the banded armies sang.

Her brazen gates wide flung the city then;
And on the plain, with acclamations loud
The conqueror hailing, countless multitudes,
Dense crowding poured: thousands her eastern towers,
And tens of thousands thronged her battlement.

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Above the Nimrod-gate, to right and left,—
A glorious league or more of living light,—
Rank over rank, as in a theatre
For Titans, or for gods, throned splendidly,—
Assyria's fairest maids, and peerless dames—
A garden of all rich, and delicate hues—
Made sunshine seem more bright; and, to the breath
Of the sweet south, a sweeter fragrance breathed.

But, beauteous most amid the beautiful;
Amid a bright heaven, the one brightest star;
Assyria's goddess queen; in regal state
Magnificent,—to pomp, imparting grace,
To triumph, majesty,—her lord to meet,
From the great central eastern gate went forth.

High throned upon a car, with gold and gems
Refulgent, slowly rode she. Diamond-wreaths,
Amid her ebon locks luxuriant, gleamed,
Like heaven's lamps through the dark: her ample robe,
Sky-hued, like to a waving sapphire glowed:
And round one graceful shoulder wreathed, one arm
Of rose-tinged snow, a web-like drapery,
Bright as a ruby streak of morning, hung.
Beneath her swelling bosom, chastely warm,
A golden zone, with priceless gems thick-starred,
Shot gentle lightnings: the unresting flash
Of diamond, and the ruby's burning glow,
With the pure sapphire's gentle radiance strove:
The flamy topaz, with the emerald cool,
Like sunshine dappling the spring meadows, played:
Gold was the clasp, and ruby. Bracelets light,
Of emerald, and diamond, and gold,
On each fine tapered, pearly wrist she wore:
And, round her pillared neck majestical,
A slender chain of diamond; the weight
Sustaining of one priceless diamond,
That on her creamy bosom, like a spark
Of sun-fire on chaste pearl embedded, lay.

With graceful ease, and perfect dignity,
Yet womanly softness; like a shape of heaven,
In pure consummate beauty,—pale, serene;
With eye oft downcast, yet with swelling heart

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Proudly exultant; on her gorgeous seat
Reclined, of Tyrian purple, golden-fringed;
By all eyes mutely worshipped, she rode on.

So, when, victorious o'er the giant brood,
Back to Olympus came the Thunderer;
Imperial Juno; on her golden car,
By clouds of fire upborne,—with smile of love,
And ether-brightening brow, her lord to meet,
Through heaven's wide opened portals proudly rode.

In shining cars, behind Assyria's queen,
Her sons, and daughters, bright as summer flowers,
To grace the triumph of the conqueror came.

He, in his blazing chariot, like a god,
Exulting rode. His helm and mail laid by;
The sunlike crown upon his head; in robes
Attired, that like one waving gem appeared,—
Amid the thunder of applauding hosts,
Onward he came. His coursers' arching necks,
With gems and gold were hung: and, far before,
Behind, and round his chariot; glittering bright,—
His choicest captains, and his royal guard,
On their proud-treading steeds rode gallantly.

The chariot of the queen at hand beheld,—
To right and left disparting, ample space
In midst the horsemen left. Low bowed each head,
As the bright Vision passed; and silence deep
Of admiration weighed upon all lips.
But, when the royal chariots, meeting, paused;
Then, first, with blushing cheek, stood up the queen,
And welcome high unto the conqueror gave.

“Now is Assyria's sun from long night risen;
And darkness will no more o'ershadow us:
But in his beams will all the earth rejoice;
And all hearts will with gladness overflow.”

So she: unknowing that, in blackest clouds,
Soon would that sun go down—to rise no more!

The monarch, as unconscious, gracefully
Descending, her in his own chariot placed;
And, whispering, answered: “Should Assyria's sun
Again grow dark,—be thou to her a moon;
For, like that soft bride of the flaming god

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Art thou, my queen; bright, beauteous, chaste,—and cold.”

Slightly her brow was darkened at that word;
And her heart swelled; but answer made she none.
Then, when the king and queen together sat,
The army shouted; and the multitudes
For gladness clapped the hand: and, through the gates
When they went in, the city roared for joy.

All day on plain, and in the city, rose
The sounds of triumph, and wild merriment:
All night within the palace of the king
Was mirth and banqueting. But there sat not
The sorrowing queen; for the proud conqueror now
Summoned again his concubines; till morn,
As in the days gone by, held revelry;
His good resolves remembered not; despised
The prophet's warnings; and at danger mocked.

So they in Nineveh. The vanquished Medes,
In flight, meantime, held on. Six days they fled;
And six days did the chariots, and the horse,
Of the Assyrians follow. Vainly strove
The Median captains, in that host dismayed,
The wonted fire to rouse: sunk were their hearts;
Their arms were weak: for, in the aid of Heaven,
Coldly they trusted now; and the priest's words,
As dreams, held light. Six days, incessantly,
The chariots, and the horse, with their fierce foes,
Pursuing, held sharp conflict; and six days,
The foot, sore wearied, murmured secretly.
Hunger came also on them; for their food
Was now consumed; and but small store of wine,
Their hearts to cheer, remained.

Nor less the foe
Hungered and thirsted; for a barren plain
They traversed, wherein, widely scattered, dwelt
The husbandmen; nor, of provision, much,
Had they, for haste, brought with them.

But, at eve
Of the sixth day, the Medes a pleasant land

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Nigh to the mountains found; with flocks, and herds,
And fruits, and men abounding. Each to each,
Then secretly the out-worn infantry
Whispered together,—and, from rank to rank,
Soon through the mass it spread,—“here must we part;
For, if we take not food and wine, our strength
Will be worn out; and we shall surely die.”
So, like to sands divided by the winds,
At night they parted, and took each his way.

This when the Assyrians the next morn beheld,—
For, distant far, the straggling foot were seen,—
Glad were they; and their scattered enemies
Hoped soon to overwhelm. But still the horse,
And chariots of the Medes, undauntedly
Confronted them: and they themselves with toil
Were worn, and hunger: also were their steeds,
By reason of the scanty herbage, faint,
And the long drought; for, as they passed before,
Their enemies all food, for man, and beast,
Consumed, or spoiled; and every well, and stream,
Troubled, and fouled; that neither man thereof,
Nor cattle, had enough. When, therefore, they
These things had pondered, longer in pursuit
They held not; but rejoiced, and cried aloud;
“Assyria's foes are scattered like the dust
Of the dry desert at the tempest's breath!
Together will they never come again!
Now, therefore, to the king let us with speed;
And, that which we have done, make known to him.”

With glad hearts turning, homeward then they went:
And, wheresoe'er they passed, proclaimed aloud,
“The king hath triumphed o'er his enemies;
They are trod down like grass! Long live the king!
May the king live for ever!”

But, meantime,
The Median captains, when their foes they saw
Distant, and toward the city hasting back,—
Beneath the shade of a pine-grove made pause;
For now it was mid-day; and, being met,
Brief counsel took together. Many then,

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Whose voices in debate, until that hour,
No man had heard, their thoughts with free words spake:
“Let us return unto our homes,” they said;
“For never will the soldiers meet again.”

But them Belesis questioned solemnly;
“What? are ye wiser than the immortal gods,
That ye resist their will, and choose your own?”

Arbaces then; who, on that morning first,
Sat in his chariot,—for his strength returned
Swiftly unto him,—spake aloud and said:
“Not now debate of that which ye will do;
Since of the present hour alone ye judge,
And of the morrow know not. For himself,
And for his wearied steed, let every man
Provision find: on yon lone mountain's top,
Where all may see it, be our banner fixed:
Also let heralds through the country go,
And call upon the soldiers to return:
So, in few days, we better shall perceive
How toward us are the minds of men disposed;
And if our aim we must abandon quite;
Or if the hand of God, as heretofore,
Is still held forth, to strengthen and protect.
But, for the morrow be debate reserved.
In council meeting then, his boldest thoughts
Who will, may speak: and that which must be done,
Or that must be endured,—let every man
His fellow strengthen to endure, or dare.
Meantime, from harness be the steeds released,
That this delicious herbage they may crop;
And let each man with food his heart make glad,
And temperate draughts; for wasted is our blood,
And our strength shrunken.”

These calm words pleased all;
And, as he counselled them, so was it done.
They planted on the mountain's top their flag;
And numerous heralds near and far rode forth;
Urging the scattered legions to return.

Nor vainly toiled they; for, ere evening fell,
Came thousands back; and far on in the night,

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By twos, and threes, by scores, and hundreds, they
Returned, and pitched their tents,—yet listlessly,
Like men who have no hope.

But, strong at heart,
As rose the sun, Arbaces, on a lawn
Mossy and green, amid the pine-grove's shade;
The captains called to council. With slow pace,
And downcast looks, they came. The bravest feared:
Arabia's king himself, and Azareel,
Zealous and faithful, to despair 'gan yield;
So in their cause the soldiers lukewarm seemed;
Hopeless of good, trusting no more in God.
The boldest and most valiant of them all,
The best course saw not. But, their fears to vent,
Bolder becoming,—of their prompt return
Each to his home, no few, in fight less known,
Now freely 'gan to talk.

Their chief, at length,
From his rude seat arising,—a fallen trunk,
Branchless, and thickly mossed,—before them all,
With slow step, walked; nor, than his beamy spear,
Other support unto his strengthening limbs
Now needed; though his heavy mail, as yet,
To endure, unable. O'er his linen vest,
Of Tyrian dye, gold-broidered; to the knee
Descending; and around his middle girt
By a broad belt, gem-clasped, and starred with gold,—
A lion's hide he wore. Dread of the plain
And forest, long had reigned the mighty beast:
But, by the young Arbaces singly met,
Him found at last his mightier. The huge spoil
O'er his left shoulder loosely now disposed;
His left hand lightly resting on the spear;
In view of all the captains stood the Mede;
And, with an eye of calm reproval, first,
The louder murmurers chiding,—patiently,
And with mild tone, to all his speech began.

“Not in you now, my friends, do I behold
Your wonted greatness. Noblest heroism,
Not in commanding victory is shown,
But in the best endurance of reverse.

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Conquest may be of chance; or Heaven's decree,
For its own end, to man inscrutable;
Since to the evil, as the good, sometimes
The victory is given,—not token, then,
Unerring, of desert: but, patiently,
With firm soul, to endure calamity;
With a calm wisdom, for our ills to seek
The remedy; or, cureless, with strong heart,
Unmurmuring, to bear; to Heaven's decree
Submiss in all,—this truest valour shows;
This man's best glory is; and all his own!
And why, my friends, thus sink ye in despair?
If God had victory decreed to you,
Without your toil and blood; arms to you, then,
Had useless been: upon your enemies
Ye might have looked; and scattered them like dust.
But, when some strong, proud tyrant's overthrow,
God doometh; to His chosen instruments
A task committeth He, that labor, skill,
Valour, and wisdom, and unbending soul,
Demandeth of them: lacking these, they fail:
Since, man the instrument, the means of man
Unto the end must work:—not unto God
Needful; but chosen.

“When the pestilence
Is sent to do His bidding,—not of man
Then seeketh He the aid: or when the floods
Are bid to overwhelm; or storms destroy;
Or earthquakes shake the nations,—not with man
Taketh He counsel then; nor aid of man
Needeth, His will to do.

“When, in one night,
The army of the proud Assyrian king,
Against Jerusalem hasting, He cut off,—
He asked not, then, the chariot, and the steed,
The sword, or mail of proof; the constant heart,
The wisdom, and the bravery, of man,—
He looked upon the sleeping myriads,
And they lay dead! Tempest, nor plague, nor fire,
Earthquake, nor lightning, nor the loosened floods,
Bade He go forth: deep silence, and the night,

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Shadowed a slumbering host; deep silence still,
Unbroken, rested on a field of death!
Warrior, and war-horse, like to sculptured forms,
For aye lay stirless! All that drew the breath;
And all that from the nostrils breathed it forth;
Ceased in the midst thereof; and were stone-dead!

“So, when His might He putteth forth, doth God
Bid, and behold it done; nor element,
Nor mortal strength requireth, Him to aid.
But, when to man a task He doth assign;
Then, strength of man, in arm, in mind, in heart,
Expecteth He: nor doth in vain expect:
For, whom He calleth, him He knoweth fit.
The heart awhile may cool, the strength may sink;
But a new fire will burn, new might arise:
God biddeth not, by man to suffer shame:
Not, for man's folly, doth Omniscience err;
Not for man's weakness, fails Omnipotence.
If ye, then, to this mighty work, by Heaven
Indeed are chosen; soon shall this despair
To hope be changed; this sorrow to great joy;
This utter darkness to a glorious light:
But, if alas! we have deceived ourselves,—
Our own poor instruments alone—not God's,—
Then, truly, will our labors all be vain:
Our quiet homes; if quiet more to be;
Place fitter for us than the perilous field!

“But, if we cannot all we wish, obtain;
Let us, at least, all compass that we can.
If once we part, we never more shall meet!
To hope were folly! Without fear, will rage
The tyrant then; without remorse, destroy:
But, while together we remain; lives yet
The hope, that, else, would die; the flame is fed,
That, else, were wholly quenched; that, wisely fanned,
May yet its work designed, accomplish all.
Our force together kept—though weaker far
Than now; though nought attempting,—to a seed
May well be likened, planted in the earth;
Which, when the rains descend, and suns shine forth,
May to a goodly and a mighty tree

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Spring up: but, like that seed, upon the rocks,
Or desert-sands, cast forth,—shall we, dispersed,
Hopeless for ever, perish utterly!
Though nothing doing, planning nothing; still
Awhile abide together: food enough,
Here have we; and the appetite to please:
Treasure in gold and silver lack we not:
Arms,—ay, and hearts, though frigid now, are ours:
Why then, like fearful children, to our homes
In such poor haste to run? What man shall say
That, even while we stand debating here,
The Bactrians may not be upon the way,
Eager to join us? or that, resolute still
Beholding us; they may not, in brief time,
To honor and right give heed? If for nought else,
For this yet hold together,—that an oath,
Of our oppressor, an all binding oath,
We may demand,—and haply may obtain,—
From our more galling fetters, a release,
To us, and to our children, promising.
From this delay, what harm can ye predict?
From perseverance, what success not win?
If now ye part,—hope nothing! all things fear!
But, if with firm soul to the last ye strive;
Then nothing fear; but all things hope, and gain!”

So spake Arbaces; and his stirring words
Not all in vain: o'er every face some light,
Like the dim flutter of a dying fire,
A brief while gleamed. Next, Abdolonimus spake;
Then Azareel; and Israel's king, the last;
Bidding them trust in God, in Israel's God.
But him, with lip of scorn, regarded some;
Saying aloud, “We know not Israel's God,
Nor in him trust: but in our gods alone.”

Them Hadad answered not; but silent stood;
For, on him bent, he saw the Mede's calm eye,
To peace admonishing; and curbed his wrath.

Nor more to him spake they; but 'mid themselves
Held gloomy converse; hope of final good,
Idle esteeming; and all farther toil,
Useless, as burthensome.

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When this he saw;
And that, with look of uttermost disdain,
The priest gazed on them, and, for scorn, stood mute,
Strongly Arbaces said; “Why standest thou,
Belesis, silent; when thy words of fire,
Never than now more needed?”

Then the priest
Slowly came forward; lifted his right hand,
Attention asking; and all tongues were still.
His eye was stern; his brow was like the night.
In silence yet a little while he stood,
And looked in every face: at length, with voice
Subdued, at first,—like to a storm far off,
But rapidly advancing,—thus he spake.

“What would ye, then? Would ye give law to God?
To you alone may He grant victory?
Nay—must ye even the place, the hour, prescribe?
And is it then so wondrous, and so new,
That one man should by four men vanquished be?
Or would it not far more be wonderful,
If, by one man, should four be overcome?

“Think ye that in yon heaven above are Powers
That rule the earth; that lift the nations up,
Or overthrow them? that the kings thereof,
And governors, appoint? or, over heaven,
Doth man now rule; and say unto the Gods,
‘Thus shall it be; for so we will it done’?

“Is, then, Sardanapalus more than God,
That ye more fear him? Hath Heaven's king decreed,
‘Thus it shall be,’ and shall Assyria's king
Answer unto Him, ‘Nay, but as I will,
So shall it be’? If greater he than God,
Why have ye risen against him? Wherefore now
Hasten ye not to fall before his feet,
And humbly say; ‘Against thy majesty,
O king! we have transgressed! and death deserve.’
But, if God yet be mightier than he,
Why should ye fear him? Written is it not,
Even by the hand of the Eternal One,
That ye shall cast the tyrant from his throne;
And that abominable city burn;

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And strew her ashes to the winds of heaven?
Shall the decrees of God be set at nought?
Or fear ye that His arm is withered up,
And His strength perished, that He cannot help?
Or, haply, doubt ye if your priest aright
The words of Heaven hath read? Within your hearts
Say ye perchance, ‘the man is lunatic
Or dreameth; wherefore should we trust in him?’
If such your thoughts, mark how I answer you.
As yon sun brightly shineth, when 'tis noon,
And not a cloud appeareth in the sky;
Even so distinctly to my inmost soul
Shone forth the great decree, which said, ‘behold!
This mighty kingdom of Assyria
Shall pass away; her pride shall be cast down;
Her king shall perish; and great Nineveh,
The city of her pomp, be known no more!’

“Who is there here that trusteth not in God?
Let him his chariots and his horse call forth,
His captains and his thousands,—and depart!
But, in the day of our sure victory,
Let him not ask a portion in our spoil,
Nor honor with our valiant. Lo! the day
Is nigh at hand, when the cold heart shall burn;
And the weak arm wax strong; when they who fled,
Shall conquer,—they who triumphed, be cast down:
For, the eternal hills shall pass away;
The waters of the great deep be dried up;
But never shall the word of God be vain;
Never shall His decree be set at nought!
Proclaim ye, then, throughout the camp, and say,
‘Let him that feareth, to his home depart!
But, whoso trusteth in the word of God,
Let him his arms prepare; and let his heart
Be joyful; for the day is nigh at hand!’

“Yea do I prophesy,—even the fifth day hence,
Shall ye hear tidings of a coming help:
For, all the night in watching have I passed,
And prayer; and thus it hath been shown to me.
Until the fifth day tarry then, I pray;

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But till the fifth day tarry. After that,
If no aid come; then have I seen a lie!
Then hath Heaven mocked me in mine agony:
Then have I been a dreamer, and a fool:
Then am I mad! Trust in me, then, no more;
But each man scoff at me; and go his way!”

So he with ardor: and his countenance
Shone brightly; like the prophet's, when his eye
Beholdeth visions. All that heard him, then;
Stirred by his words, and by his vehemence,
With one voice cried aloud, “Even as he saith,
So let it be!”

The council now dissolved;
The captains straightway 'mid the soldiers went;
Encouraged them; and bade them trust in God.

Of their whole army, came back every man:
Joyful again they were, and strong of heart,
And in the prophet's word again had trust.

But, when the fourth day came, they offered up
A solemn sacrifice. With fervency
Belesis prayed; the multitude sang hymns,
And were exceeding joyful. Afterwards,
Nigh on the hour of sunset,—to the camp,
An agëd Israelitish minstrel came;
And with a clear voice sang unto his harp,
That thousands of the soldiers thronged to hear.
Then, when Belesis heard how strong his voice;
And that his hand was cunning; thus he said:
“Take thou refreshment now, and rest; for eve
Is come, and to their tents the soldiers haste:
But, when thou hast thy strength with rest, and food,
And wine recruited; to our leader's tent
Come thou,—for there to-night the captains feast,—
And sing, and play, before them. Let thy song
Again resound the praise of Israel's God:
How from Egyptian bondage, with strong hand,
He brought you forth: for surely is your God
Ours also; and there is no God but one.”

The Hebrew bowed, and went: and, when with food,
And wine refreshed, unto the tent made speed.

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With a glad heart, Arbaces welcomed him:
The captains, also, gave him welcome glad;
For many had been sore discomforted,—
The fifth day now so near at hand, nor sign
Of help approaching,—that they doubted much,
And their brows darkened. To the harper, then,
A goblet charged with wine, Arbaces sent:
And, when the Hebrew had the bright juice quaffed,
And felt his heart rejoiced; with master-hand
He swept the strings, and lifted up his voice.

“From Egypt's bondage loosed,
Toward the Red Sea Israel fled:
But the haughty king, from the ten plagues 'scaped,
And hardened still at heart,
And unbelieving still,
Pharaoh the impious one,
Mocking Jehovah's might, drove after them.
With horse, and with chariots, fiercely drove he;
And cried aloud,
While his eyes flashed fire,
And the white foam hung at his lip,
‘Pursue! pursue!
Pursue, and spoil, and slay with the sword!
Their God will not help them now.’

“Then Israel saw, and feared,
And trembled, and cried out,
‘Were there no graves in Egypt left,
That we come to perish here?’
But Moses said, ‘fear not;
Fear not; for this great host,
That now ye see
In the pride of their strength,
Ye never shall see more.
To God this fight belongs;
Not to the might of man:
He will His hand put forth,
His dread Almighty hand;

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The God of hosts,
The Great I Am,
Jehovah will do battle now;
And ye shall stand and see.’

“'Twas night. By the Red Sea's brink they stood,
Stood thronging, and afraid:
Dark was the sky
To Egypt's host:
But the pillar of fire
That with Israel went,
A cloud by day, and a fire by night,
Burned red o'er the surging deep.
Like waves of flame the waters rolled,
Red billows broke at their feet:
Then they thought that the hour
Of their doom was come;
For the sword was behind,
The sea was before,
And farther they might not flee.
They heard the tramp of the vengeful foe,
Driving in darkness on;
And trembled, and feared,
And smote on their breasts,
And wailed aloud,
And rent their hair;
For they knew not if God would help.

“But Moses heard
The voice of the Lord,
And stretched his rod o'er the sea:
The heaving waters knew the sign,
And as a lake lay still:
Sank then 'neath the rod; but, to either hand,
Rose cliff-like, and left between,
A path for a multitude, horsemen, and foot,
And chariots in wide array;
A broad, dry path from shore to shore,
Through the bed of the secret deep.
And lo! already, to guide them on,

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Far down in the awful chasm,
The fiery pillar shone!
Then Israel knew
The hand of the Lord;
And bowed the head, and spake no word,
But down the steep road went,
Down—down—
Down till the heaped-up waters, red
In the fiery pillar's gleam,
Like rocks of burning ruby towered,
High and more high, as they journeyed down.

“But, fierce as flame,
Came on the foe:
He stood on the awful brink:
Amazed he beheld the sea-depths bared,
And the waters piled on high;
And he saw, by the gleam of the fiery cloud,
Far below,
Far in the ocean-chasm below,
As in the depth of a mountain-dell,
The silent host of Israel,
Treading the bed of the deep.
Yet with rage and with hate was he blind,
And knew not the hand of God;
But called aloud, and lashed his steeds
Furiously down the steep brink of the sea;
Furiously down drave he;
And his horse, and his chariots, after him went,
Down—down—
To the depths of the dusk abyss,
The king and his reckless host,
Drove in their madness down.

“The watery rocks yet stood,
Like walls to prop the sky.
The sky above, and the waters above,
To right, and to left, and behind, and before,
To them were the universe now.

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They looked around; and their hearts 'gan fail,
And their threats into silence sank.
No sound was heard, save the pant of the steeds,
The tramp of the hoofs, and the grinding wheels,
Heavily through the sea-bed's sands,
Heavily laboring on.

“But, at the morning watch,
The Lord looked out from the cloud;
With face of wrath, and lightning eye,
From the innermost depths of the cloud,
On the host of Egypt looked.
Astonied they saw; and their blood grew cold,
And the joints of their loins were loosed.
Then they howled, and shrieked,
And cried aloud,
As they gazed on the terrible brow,
Let us turn, let us turn,
From the wrath of the Lord;
Turn—turn, and from Israel flee!
God for them fighteth,
God is their strength,
Haste, haste, and from Israel flee!’

“Then they turned and fled,
Chariots and horse,
Backward turned they, and fled.
The sound of the scourge unceasing was heard,
The shout and the cry,
The groan of the steed,
And the stamp of the driver's foot;
For the Lord had crazed
Their chariot-wheels,
That heavily they drave;
Heavily, heavily,
Heavily drave they on.

“But, on the farther shore,
Stood Israel, and looked back.

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The surgeless deep
Was red as fire,
Beneath the eye of wrath:
They saw the thronged Egyptian host,
The brazen car, and the gleaming mail,
Deep down in the yawning chasm
Of waters laboring on:
They heard, like the howl
Of the distant storm,
Their wailing, and their cries:
They stood and looked,
And spake not a word:
For they felt that the arm
Of God was put forth,
And their hour of deliverance come.

“Then again the voice
To Moses came,
The still small voice of the Lord.
He stood by the shore,
Stretched forth his hand,
And lifted his rod o'er the sea.
The mountain cliffs
Of water felt
The will of God, and sank.
Down, with precipitous overthrow,
Deep thundering they sank!
On Pharaoh, and his host,
His chariots and his horse,
They sank, and covered them!
One death-shriek, as the watery cliffs leaned o'er,
Arose,—then all was gone!
A waste of rolling, roaring foam
Blotted them out!
The clouds were washed with the hissing spray;
The eternal hills with the deep boilings shook.

“Thus did the Lord save Israel on that day
From the oppressor's hands,

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Who long and harshly had oppressëd them.
Then Moses and his people, praising God,
Lifted the voice, and sang exultingly;
‘We will sing unto the Lord,
For he hath triumphed gloriously;
The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea!
Pharaoh's chariots, and his horse,
Hath He cast into the sea:
His chosen captains hath He drownëd!
The depths have covered them!
They sank into the bottom as a stone!
They sank as lead in the mighty waters!
Sing ye then unto the Lord,
For He hath triumphed gloriously;
The horse and his rider hath He thrown into the sea.’”

So sang the Hehrew; and, with loud acclaim,
The chiefs applauded; for, like one inspired,
Seemed he, and with prophetic rapture filled.
But, when he was gone forth, triumphantly
Belesis cried, “And who is Pharaoh then?

“Even he that sitteth on Assyria's throne!
And, as from Egypt's bondage, Israel,
So, from Assyria's bonds, shall we be loosed.
The God of Israel is Chaldea's God;
In Him, then, let us trust. Behold the day,
The hour, of your deliverance is at hand!”

Yet speaking, from the tent he looked; then cried,
“The day is come; for midnight is passed by,
And in their glorious spheres the stars proclaim
That the new day is born!”

Scarce had he ceased,
When on the silence stole a tremulous sound,
Distant, and doubtful. Every man drew breath,
And listened; but full well they knew it soon
The tramp of horse, full speed. Man looked on man,
And wondered.—Rapidly the beating hoofs
Drew nigh, and nigher. Close without, at length,
Sharply they stopped. Came then the clink of steel,
As hurriedly the riders leaped to earth;

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And, breathless with their speed, into the tent
Four mail-clad horsemen burst. Death-pale were they;
Though from their brows, by reason of long toil,
The sweat-drops poured. All from their seats sprang up;
Yet for awhile spake none: with anxious eyes,
Upon the panting messengers they looked,
Evil foreboding. First, Arbaces thus;
“Why speak ye not! If tidings dark ye bring,
Tell them at once aloud, that all may hear;
And that the ill may be the sooner healed;
Or known, at least, and manfully endured.”

To him with faltering voice, and quivering lip,
Thus Ithamar: “Tidings most dark we bring.
Fate, and the gods, frown on us! All is lost!
Subtly deceived by promises of power,
Riches, and honor, from Assyria's king,—
The Bactrian leaders, with like treacherous hope
Of spoil and honor, did the general host
So dazzle, that, as one man, they cried out
To aid the tyrant. Us had they denied,
For we nor gold, nor honors, had to give:
To him alas! a willing ear they lent;
And now are madly hasting on their way.

“But, for their missives, who the tidings glad
Were bearing to the king—them we o'ertook;
Seized, questioned, and have safely hither brought;
So that not soon shall the arch-despot learn
His guile's prosperity. Yet, what avail!
Where shall we look? what hope is left us now!”

To him Belesis, standing forth, replied;
“What hope, sayst thou? the best; the hope in Heaven!
For armies, in God's sight, are as the dust
Which a breath scattereth. But tell us, now;
Where is this host? Nor be thou troubled thus;
Else, with thy fears,—mere shadow of a cloud,—
Mayst thou the rest infect.”

With look displeased,
Thus Ithamar: “A three days' journey hence,
Encamped we left them yesternight. If fears

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Shadowy have stirred us, much will be our joy;
Though our own shame importing. Be it so!
Meantime, with evil-threatening eye doth Fate
Lower on us. In wild tumult; as with wine
Drunken, or mad; the Bactrians come along;
Hot for the tyrant whom—so lately left,
When most he needed—now they burn to serve:
Even through this valley must their course be held;
And on the second eve may they be here.”

When this they heard, upon the captains fell
Dismay and trouble. Darkened grew their brows;
Man unto man spake angrily; and turned
Upon the priest fierce faces; murmuring loud;
Saying among themselves, “We are deceived;
He dreameth, and discourseth not with Heaven:
Let us no longer listen to his words,
But every man to his own home depart.”

Arbaces, meantime, unto no man spake;
Nor did his countenance fall. Upon his spear
Leaning, with eyes cast down, and thoughtful brow,
He of the future pondered. Nor the priest
With any man yet spake: the angry eye
Turned on him he beheld; the muttered sneer
Saw on the lip; yet, gathering up his robe,
In a proud silence stood.

But now the storm,
At distance threatening long, came swiftly on:
The glance grew bolder, and more loud the scoff:
Till,—powerless longer to control his rage,—
Kethor, the Cappadocian chief; gray-haired,
Yet strong, of giant limb, and hot in fight;
Before Belesis hurrying, sternly thus.

“Why art thou silent, priest, when all else speak?
And wherefore dost thou not interpret now?
Is this the succour, then, thou did'st foretell?
This the deliverance out of Pharaoh's hands?
And is it thus Assyria's might shall fall,
And pass away, and be no more beheld?
Didst thou not say, ‘if, on the fifth day hence,
Help come not to you, then am I a fool;
Then have I seen a lie; then trust me not;

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But each man scoff at me, and go his way?’
Dreamer! what hast thou done! Thou hast betrayed
To ruin all this host! But, canst thou not
Stretch forth the hand, and save us? Where are now
The gods whom thou didst trust? with whom so oft
Thou didst converse; and who the promise gave
That the great city should be burned with fire;
And her oppression cease? Call on them now:
Can they not hear thee? or will they not help?
Are they the gods indeed? or are they not
Gods rather of thy dreams? Hast thou beheld?” . . .

Still spake he, when, with arm toward heaven upraised,
And aspect terrible, the priest advanced.
“Blasphemer! peace! and tremble lest the God
Whom thou deridest, strike thee with His fire,
Even in the height of thy bold wickedness!
On me thy frenzy, as thou wilt, pour forth:
Rail till the fit hath gone; and scoff thy fill:
Thyself, ere long, shalt thine own judgment pass;
Crazed now, and blind with passion, though thou art.”

He ceased, and, frowning, sat. But, not the less,
Amid the captains raged the discontent:
And Kethor, undeterred, thus answered him.

“Blasphemer am I none: nor do I mock
The God indeed, false prophet! but the Thing
That thou hast dreamed of; that, with hollow lies,
Hath mocked us; and, for pure gold, offered brass.
That do I mock; and thee, its minister.
But tell us, then: whence shall the succour come
That thou didst see approaching? By what hand
Shall Israel, now, from Pharaoh be set free?
Where is the fiery pillar, where the rod,
To make the waters part, and give us way?”

So he, the priest insulting; and, with him,
Joined not a few—all taunting bitterly.
But, calmly waiting till the smoke should pass,
To their poor spite Belesis answered not.

With sounds discordant,—many tongues at once
Opposing counsels urging,—rang the tent.

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Some, on the morrow wholly to dissolve
Their forces, and each man, as best he might,
For his own good provide,—their best course held:
Some, yet in arms to stay, advised; the while,
They of the king might such conditions gain
As life, at least, and freedom from constraint
Of bonds or dungeon, might ensure: but these,
Others derided, and for folly taxed.
Some, to retreat, gave counsel: yet in arms
Remain, till with more surety they should know
The Bactrian's purpose; or till greater force,
O'erwhelming, they should see against them bent:
But neither this pleased all; nor without scoff
Of some was heard; for each man his own thought
Deemed wisest; and, in smallest difference, found
Momentous opposite.

The Arabian king,
Silence obtaining, urged a bolder course:
Toward Babylon,—but ten days' journey off,—
He willed them on the morrow to depart:
So, haply, unawares approaching, they,
By stratagem, or force, the gates might win:
Securely there the king defy; by walls
Impregnable as his, and gates of brass,
Defended; till, meanwhile, by other strength
Made able him to cope with,—they the war
Might re-awaken; and with hopes, perchance,
Even brighter than at first: or empire might
With him divide,—for who could all foresee?
Of Babylon, another Nineveh
Creating—'gainst the Assyrian tyranny,
A bulwark for the nations,—who might tell?
At worst, the power to separate,—then, as now,
Would equally be theirs: but good result
He augured: and the loosely guarded gates,—
Not threatened, haply, therefore, not secure;
To seize had hope; nor idle, as he thought.

But, when he ceased, Belesis toward him looked,
And shook the head,—so vain he deemed the attempt.

Answer was needed not; for, with one voice,

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The counsel was refused; and, with the din
Of striving tongues tumultuous,—like some cave
By ocean's marge, where breakers burst and roar,—
The tent resounded; and confusion seemed
Sole master: for Arbaces silent stood,
And silent sat the priest; nor other voice,
Like theirs the rest to rule, among them was.

Meantime, throughout the awakened troops had spread
Tidings portentous of a foe at hand:
Nor rumour failed, as evermore, the dark
To deepen, and the great to magnify:
The Bactrians in their front,—the king behind,
Advancing on them,—chariots, horse, and foot,
Innumerable,—scourges, bonds, and death,
On every man denounced,—such the dire tale,
Among them, swift as flames in stubble field,
Spreading, and gathering, still.

Like blast on blast
Of storm awakening, came the tumult on;
And, o'er the inner tempest of the tent
Prevailing, with new fear and trouble filled
The jarring captains. All around the tent
Rose clamorous voices—“Let us see our chiefs!
We are betrayed! Our enemies are nigh!
We are delivered up into their hands!
Arbaces, and Belesis, now come forth,
And speak unto us, and the truth declare!”

That hearing, from the tent Arbaces sped;
And glaring bright the camp beheld; with fires
All round illumined; and the living sea
Of men in tumult working. At the door
Then stood he; and with clear voice spake aloud.

“Ye now that hear me, hasten to the rest;
And bid their minds be still. In little time,
Be ye assured, I will again come forth,
And speak unto you. All will yet be well:
Fear not; debate not; but in Heaven put trust.”

As, in a frighted child, the placid tone
Of a loved father's voice, new confidence
Inspires, and soothes the throbbing heart to calm;

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So, upon those who heard him, fell the voice
Of the majestic chief: from man to man
Flew on his words; and all in him had trust.

He, to the tent returning, nigh the door
Stood with raised hand, in sign that he would speak:
Then instantly the chiefs their discord ceased,
And to his words gave heed. With tone severe,
Yet calm; and eye that gave rebuke;
Yet not in anger, but in friendly zeal;
After brief silence, firmly thus he spake.

“In every difficulty, a calm mind
Lightens endurance, and gives action strength;
Doubles the power to suffer, or to do.
The strongest swimmer may sink instantly,
If his heart fail him when he goeth forth
To the deep waters. On a narrow bridge,
He that would cross a fearful precipice,
Must fix his eye, and with a firm foot tread,
Or on the rocks beneath his bones may bleach.
Is ours the firm heart now? the unwavering eye?
The steady foot? What! are we cowardly,
Effeminate, or drunken,—that we fume,
And fret, and quarrel, and look here and there;
And know not what to think; nor what to do;
Nor what to leave undone? Rulers are we,
Who cannot our own fears and follies rule?
Guides are we, who ourselves know not the way?
Lords, who to petty passions are the slaves?
If our strong foe we cannot overcome,
Let us, at least, our own weak follies quell.
If to our hopes success be possible;
By wisdom, perseverance, courage, zeal,
And a calm patience, must the prize be won.
But, were the treasure even in our grasp;
Yet folly, jarring counsels, hearts unfirm,
And passions uncontrolled, would let it drop.
If part we must, as friends yet let us part,
Who, having done our best,—to Heaven's high will,
Unmurmuring, bow submissive. If a blow
We yet may strike, let us be cool, that thus

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We better may take aim. If we must die,
Let us go quietly, that we may think
In our last moments of the mighty Gods.
Ponder on this, my friends: and, ere you judge
Of counsel, act, or motive,—in your hearts
Quench anger; whose black fumes, o'er brightest mind,
Bring darkness, as thick clouds about the sun,
Even at his noon, bring darkness. Nor do thou,
Belesis, over-proudly hold aloof,
When hostile tongues assail thee. Wisest far
Of all, we do confess thee; and in thee,
And in thy prophecy, will still place trust.
Speak thou unto the captains then; and calm
Their passions; and to better thoughts awake.
I, meantime, to the multitude will haste;
For sorely troubled are they; by dark fears
Encompassed, and amazement.”

With these words,
He ended, and went forth. A little while
Was silence in the tent; for every man,
By that great majesty of voice, and look,
Admonished was, yet calmed. Slowly, at length,
Arose Belesis; gathered up his robe,
And signed that he would speak. No angry tongue
Now murmured 'gainst him: to his words all ears
Were opened; every eye was on him fixed.
Undaunted, unabashed, undoubting still,
The same calm brow was his, the eye of light,
To Heaven appealing; the same solemn voice,
Sonorous, and commanding, as when all
Had listened to his words, as to a god's.
A moment he looked silently around;
Then, with calm tone at first; like the slow heave
Of an awakening sea,—but swelling soon
To power, and ardor, like the long, full roll
Of waves, when all its might the storm puts forth,—
Thus to the listening captains he began.

“Truly, and wisely, and with friendly zeal,
That of you thanks demands,—though on yourselves
Reproof inflicting,—hath Arbaces now

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Spoken unto you: and to me no less:
For, why the angry word should I with scorn
Resent, and from your counsels hold aloof;
Seeing that hot wrath burneth out the brain,
And, of the wisest, maketh but a fool.
But, I, ye say, have truly been the fool,
And foolishly to you have prophesied.
Ye say, I did foretell that, on this day,
Shoud ye hear tidings of deliverance nigh,—
Yet, for deliverers, now come enemies;
And surely shall ye perish. Yea, even so
Have ye reviled me: but I answer you,—
Not falsely, and not foolishly have I
Thus prophesied; but even as Heaven itself
Hath shown the future to me. I affirm
That this day your deliverance is at hand!
That ye have tidings of the promised help!
That, though the Bactrians do against you come,
Through them will surely come your victory!

“I told you aid approached; but said not whence:
I said that ye should triumph; but told not
The manner, nor the time, nor place thereof:
I knew an arm Almighty was put forth;
But knew not how salvation would be wrought.
For, the prophetic vision showeth not
Distinctly always, as the well-penned book
Which a man readeth in the light of noon;
But, oft-times, like to shapes in the dusk eve;
Or like a stately palace, or a tower,
In torch-light part distinct, and part in gloom.
Looking upon it, truly can ye say,
‘A palace, or a tower before me stands;’
But yet ye see not all the form thereof;
Nor of its secret chambers know ye aught.

“Even so with truth did I declare to you,
That in Heaven's scroll I had beheld the doom
Of that imperious Nineveh; that den
Of wickedness; that scourge of all the East.
I have beheld its fires mount up to heaven;
I have beheld the mighty walls cast down:

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I have beheld, where stood the Eastern Queen,
The desert's solitude; and, for the sound
Of mirth and banqueting, have heard the scream
Of the lone vulture, and the lion's roar:
Where stood the cloud-wreathed temples, and the towers,
And palaces, that with eternity
Did claim companionship, I have beheld
The traveller from far lands, by long search worn,
Lean on his staff, and marvel where had been
The city of old Ninus; and oft shake
The doubtful head, and rail at history's lie.
These have I seen: and, for the fallën throne,
Have seen a new throne rise: and, for the kings
That did oppress the nations, have beheld
Another king, who on that throne shall sit;
And long in wisdom and in justice reign:
But I have told you not the day, nor hour,
When this shall happen,—nor the course thereof.
Ye are as travellers, o'er a desert bound,
That know not of the path; nor where doth lie
The city of their search. I point not out
The very foot-track; I name not the wells
Where ye shall drink; the sands that ye shall shun;
Nor the green spots in which ye shall repose:
But I say to you, ‘go upon your way;
The place before you lies; walk boldly on:
A Power unseen, Omnipotent, will lead!
Shrink not from danger, nor with labor faint;
And ye shall surely find the thing ye seek;
For so, by Him that never can deceive,
Or err, it hath been shown to me!’ . . . . What, then!
Do ye, at the first difficulty, turn,
To mock at me, and cry, ‘thou lying guide!
Foolish or false, where hast thou led us now?
Where is the city thou did'st promise us?
Where are the vineyards, where the flocks and herds;
The corn-fields, the green pastures, and the brooks?’ . . .

“Said I unto you, without weariness,
That ye should travel? without toil, should reap?

274

That ye should front the lion in his den;
Yet from his talons come untouched away?

“But, is the conflict ended? Are ye fallen,—
Cast down into the dust, no more to rise?
No! ye have been defeated; shall defeat:
Have fled; but shall pursue: your scale to earth
Hath sunk; yet soon shall strike the beam in heaven.

“But, without wisdom, without firmness, toil,
Valour, and brotherly love, hope ye these things?
He that to battle goeth, putteth on
The breast-plate, and the helmet, and the shield:
But ye upon your souls put no defence
'Gainst discord's poisoned shafts; ye arm them not
With the keen weapons that give victory.
Put on, I pray you now, the tempered mail
Of firm endurance; and the saving shield
Of wisdom: gird upon you the keen sword
Of valour: fill your quivers with the shafts
Of prudent foresight, that do wound from far:
Let zeal and brotherly love bind all your hearts;
That, as one arm, ten thousand arms may move:
Let not the hill of difficulty stop;
Nor deepest flood of danger turn you back:
But, with strong heart, unshrinking, persevere;
And in the word of God place all your trust;—
Then, shall ye journey on triumphantly;
And your strong foes shall fall before your feet!”

Scarce had he ceased, ere, from without, was heard
Thunder of acclamation. Many then
Among the captains, cried out joyfully,
“An omen! a true omen! As he saith,
We surely shall go on triumphantly;
And our strong foes shall sink before our might.”

But, when Arbaces entered, and made sign
That he would speak unto them; they were still.
And, when all stood attentive, thus he spake.

“The tumult in the camp is quieted;
The soldiers go to rest: then let us, too,
Our troubled spirits calm, and seek repose;
That in the morning may our minds be clear

275

To reason; and our limbs for action strong.
If in his heart hath any of us felt
Against his fellow enmity, Oh, now,
Let it be all forgotten, and erased!
If any time he hath felt friendliness,
Let it be now remembered, and made strong!
For me, I do not know, in all this host,
The man with whom I could not join the hand
Of kindness; and with whom, in such great cause,
I could not with a cheerful spirit die!
But life is yet my hope, and victory;
For expectation stirreth in me strong,
As though some God had whispered to my soul,
‘Be joyful! your deliverance is at hand!’
A gladness riseth in my heart; my limbs
Feel sudden strength: a brightness hath appeared
To gleam from the dark cloud that threatened storm:
The spears, methinks, that now against us come,
Shall with us go against our enemies:
The laughter of the oppressor shall be turned
To grief; his hope shall bring to him despair.
For I, my friends, cannot the Bactrian chiefs
So folly-ruled believe, that they will work,
With ours, their own destruction; knowing once,—
As well we can instruct them,—the sure end.
We will with reasons sway; with hopes incite;
With fears alarm; with promises persuade;
Or, failing, with destruction will o'erwhelm.

“At early morning let us sacrifice,
And pray unto the gods: the tents then strike,
And toward the Bactrians up the valley speed.
By noon, we may the long and narrow pass,
Named of Melchisedek, reach,—that tyrant king
Who there, with all his host, in one hour fell.
Through this the Bactrian must the next day march;
And there will we confront him: and, be sure,
There with Melchisedek shall he leave his bones;
Or, with us leagued, against the city go.
For, therein come,—before them, and behind,
All pass will be shut out; and o'er their heads

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Death instant threaten. If they, strong in guilt,
To reason and to justice will not list;
Even let them die in their iniquity!

“Thus, briefly, my first thoughts have I disclosed:
If any man to censure them see cause,
Let him now speak: if none, then, with the night
And stillness, let us on them ponder well,
And with the morn resolve.”

These words to all
Were pleasing. High in hope they parted then,
Each man unto his tent: and, in brief time,
Above the lately agitated camp,
The brooding wings of night and silence hung.

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BOOK THE FOURTEENTH.

The sun arose, and flooded earth and sky
With ruby and with gold. From slumber then
The legions waked; and sacrificed, and prayed.
But, ere the third hour, every tent was struck;
And the great army silently marched on.

Still, as they moved, more straightened grew the vale,
More high the mountain range; until, at length,—
As though by earthquake rent—from crown to base,
Each side a precipice perpendicular,
Horrent with jagged rocks that overhung,
Momently threatening fall,—sheer through the heights,
A narrow chasm they saw,—that fearful pass
In which, with all his host, Melchisedek,
Rained on by rocks, had perished. Thither come,—
As had been ordered,—they who led the van,
Bade sound the trumpet-signal; and the host
At once stood still;—with plenteous food and drink
Refreshed themselves; then, elbow on the ground,
Man with man talking earnestly, they lay,
Awaiting new command.

The chiefs, meantime,
Arbaces summoned; and, with radiant brow,
High thoughts denoting, thus at once began.

“The horsemen whom at day-break we sent on;
With tidings of the Bactrian are returned.
From Ramah's lofty peak, on the wide vale
Beyond the mountain ridge, have they been seen;
Like to an ant-hill glittering in the sun,

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For distance, seeming; but, with the fourth hour
Of morning, may be here. Behoves us then
All diligence to use, reception fit
That we may give them. We must spare not now
For sweat of brow, or weariness of limb:
Hope must give strength; and thought of victory
Be to our hearts as wine. Now, mark me well.
And, that which I shall say, throughout the camp
Let heralds bear around; and every chief
Unto the captains under him explain;
And they unto the soldiers tell again;
Till all shall, like ourselves, well understand;—
Else evil, and not good, may come to us.

“Now, in this fashion have we ordered all.
Let Azariah, with ten thousand men
That draw the bow; and, with ten thousand men,
Sword and spear armed, Abiram,—haste away;
And, close above the entrance of the pass
Concealed, as well they may, all night lie still.

“But, in the morning, when they shall have seen
That the whole Bactrian army hath gone in,—
Then, from their heights descending silently,
Let them the entrance of the pass block up;
And all retreat cut off. In like way, here,—
Chariots, and horse, and mail-clad infantry,
Guarding the outlet, will advance forbid.

“But now,—save those that with Abiram go,
And Azariah,—let us, every man;
Even from the meanest soldier, unto him
That o'er his thousands, and ten thousands rules,—
Food taking for the night, and for the morn,
On both sides of the gorge ascend the hills:
There loose the rocks,—for the last dire extreme
Preparing,—then, with food refresh ourselves;
And, till the morning, lie, and take repose.

“And in the morning, when the Bactrian force
Is heard advancing,—let no soldier stir,
Or speak at all; but in deep stillness lie,
Till he shall hear the signal. Mark me now.

“From point to point, along the rocky heights,

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Shall captains of ten thousand take their stand;
But helmless, and unmailed, lest by the gleam
They be discovered. Likest husbandmen,
Or hunters should they seem. When they shall see
That with the Bactrian leaders I have speech,—
For singly to confront them shall I go,—
Let them look heedfully, and mark me well.
While they behold me peaceful, let them, too,
In peace remain; but, if I lift my arm,
And toward the hill-tops look, and cry ‘Arise!’—
Then, let them also, with a mighty voice,
Cry out, ‘Arise, arise!’ That signal heard,
Let every man leap up, and show himself,
And with a loud voice shout; then, afterwards,
Be still, and wait the end. But let no rock
Be hurled, no dart be flung, no arrow shot:
Let every spearman lift his spear on high;
Let every archer threaten with his bow;
Let every bar of iron, every axe,
Be brandished;—so the Bactrian may behold
That, of a truth, destruction overhangs.

“Then surely will the captains lean to us;
Will give the friendly hand; the oath will take;
And with us leagued against the city go.
So, must it fall before us.

“But, if they,
Stubborn in wrong, will not to reason list;
But, for the king, will rather evil do,
Than, for our just cause, good; then must they die!
For, if ye see that I draw forth my sword,—
At once let spears be thrown, and arrows shot;
The rocks upheaved, and hurled upon their heads.
And though I also perish,—heed it not.
The brave Arabian king will be your chief;
Your counsellor the prophet. Then go back
Against the city, fearless. Still in God
Place trust; and surely shall ye yet prevail!”

Promptly the heralds rode throughout the host,
And made proclaim of that which should be done:
The captains also, each in his degree,

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To those beneath him spake;—so that to all
Was it made known; and well was understood.

Then Azariah, with ten thousand men
That drew the bow; and, with ten thousand men,
Sword and spear armed, Abiram, hasted on:
But all the rest, food taking for the night,
And for the morning, to the mountain-tops,
With ponderous hammer, axe, and iron bar
Laden, upclomb; and to their toilsome work
Joyously girt themselves.

A league or more,
Each side the chasm, they spread. Like hail-storm, soon,
Fell the thick blows: loud rang the iron bars;
Loud rose the cheering voices.

But, ere night,
Their task was finished: every soldier then
Took food; in his wide mantle wrapped himself;
And lay him down to sleep. The peopled hills
Ere long were silent as the wilderness.

All night they slept. But, when the sun arose,
Horse, chariots, infantry, in dense array,
Within the entrance of the pass took place,
And stood in silence. Nor was any sound
Heard 'mid the crowded rocks; for every man,
Where he had slept, lay quiet; breathed his prayer;
Took of his food; and whispered, if he spake.
The traveller through the pass, might have stood still,
And marvelled at the utter solitude.

But, at the third hour, slowly up the gorge
A single chariot moved; for, dimly now
Was heard the sound of an advancing force;
The trampling, and the voices, and the swell,
At intervals, of warlike instruments.
Within the chariot, the majestic Mede,
To full strength now restored, rode calmly on;
At his left hand Belesis,—in that hour,
Fixed every peril of his friend to share.
With them, the horses ruling, Azareel
Rode also; for his claim like risk to abide,
The Mede refused not; since, with those who came,

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His kindred, friends, and countrymen, were mixed;
And his own legions—a far different chief
Obeying now; but, haply, to his voice,
If heard, not all unwilling to give ear.

At slow pace up the long defile they went;
Calmly and silently; for lofty thoughts
Each bosom filled, nor of discourse was need.
Before them a short space, two heralds rode;
And, when, at length, they saw the Bactrians nigh,
Their trumpets sounded; and, to those who first
Their errand questioned, answered, and went on.
The soldiers, as they passed them, bent the head;
The captains also lifted up the hand,
And friendly greeting gave. Yet unto none
The three replied; they bowed, and still went on.

But, when they saw that Ahab was come nigh,
With his chief captains riding gallantly,
Then they the heralds bade to sound anew,
And parley with him beg. He, when he saw
Arbaces, and the priest, and Azareel,
Knew them; and, with a cheerful countenance,
And glad voice, welcomed. But, when he had heard
What spake the heralds,—that a conference
Of solemn import by the chiefs was asked;
He lifted up his voice, and gave command
That, while they spake, the army should stand still.
Then, when the trumpets had the signal blown,
And all in silence stood; within his car
He rose; and to the Median captains said:
“What seek ye of us? and as friends, or foes,
Come ye to question us?”

Arbaces then
Stood in his chariot, and thus answered him.

“That which we seek of you, few words may tell:
That as warm friends right gladly would we meet,
And like to brethren go along with you,
With truth can we declare. If good, or ill,
Come from this conference, rests with you alone.
But, from our chariots let us now alight,
And stand together; that the words we speak
May be the better heard: for our discourse,

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Perchance, may not be brief: nor to deep thought
Unminist'ring; and action wise and prompt
Of all demanding.”

At this speech amazed,
Ahab stood silent; with a dubious look,
On the great soldier gazing: but, at length,
Thus answered. “Of a verity, thy words
Sound strangely; and with voice and look that well
Might make us pause, are spoken: not the less,
We will give ear unto thee: and, meantime,—
For now the fifth hour of our march is come,—
The soldiers shall take food, and brief repose.”

That said, he gave the word. The trumpets then
Blew out; and the glad signal was obeyed.
In haste the soldiers took forth food, and drink:
On the smooth turf, in shadow of the rocks,
Sat, and refreshed themselves; then, silent some,
Some in low talk, stretched their tired limbs for rest.
But the chief captains from their cars came down;
And, in the cool shade of a towering peak,—
For now the sun shone fiercely,—with the three
Together stood, that they might hold discourse.

Then first Abihu, captain of the host
Of Sogdiana, spake unto the rest.
A kind man was he, and to Azareel
Bore liking; and a cheerful man, withal,
And generous; but of purpose still unfirm.
Some obscure evil dreading then at hand,
Thus he: “Let now the tables first be spread,
That these our honored guests, like friends of old,
May sit among us: then, by plenteous food,
And generous wine, when we shall be refreshed,—
With clear head, and warm heart, we may confer:
For, in an empty stomach, never yet
Bred aught but choler and distemperate thought.”

To him Arbaces; “With a thankful heart
Would we your food partake; and of the cup
Drink with you; and for ever be as friends:—
But, let us first our thoughts speak openly;
Lest that the hands which break of the same bread,

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Should, after, draw the sword as enemies.
And let our words be honest: let us not
Strive cunningly each other to deceive;
For God is not deceived. Speak truly, then;
And tell us, whither go ye; and for what.

“In our great trouble when we sent to you,
And said, ‘now hasten to us, and bring help;
So shall ye, also, from the yoke be freed;’—
Did ye not answer us; ‘behold! we go
To our own countries; to our homes, our wives,
Our parents, and our children, and our friends:
Sore tired of arms are we, and cannot come:’—
So said ye not unto us? yet, behold!
Ye are returning. Have ye better thought,
Since thus ye answered us? And come ye now
With us to join, and 'gainst the city go?”

Thus he; and there was silence; for no man
Knew how to give fit answer. But, at length,
Quickly forth stepping, Nahor,—who, in place
Of Azareel, the Arachosians ruled,—
With a dark visage, and sharp accent, thus,
Sneeringly spake: “First answer ye,—and say,
By what right dare ye so to question us.
And how will ye compel us to reply,
If we should hold our peace? Have ye at hand
Your thrice a hundred thousand mailëd men,
To punish us, if we should disobey?
Not unto you are we accountable:
And wherefore should we render to you, then,
Reason for aught we do? . . . . Where now is gone
The might that threatened to sweep down the walls
Of the eternal city? Hath it sped?
And have the bulwarks fallen? Or are not ye
Yourselves, the boasters,—as full well we know,—
Like to the last year's dust gone utterly?
Let the strong threaten, and his thoughts speak loud;
But let the weak man stand from out the way,
And hold his peace.”

So he, with bitter scorn;
And, in astonishment, Arbaces, soon,

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To answer him, prepared: but Azareel
Stood forward hastily,—preventing him.
“Speak to him not, Arbaces; for his thoughts
Are evil; and he hopeth to breed strife.
To Ahab speak thou, and to all the rest;
And they with calm words will reply to thee:
But, for this man, who standeth where I stood;
Where I again shall stand; him know I well
Of old, false, envious, mean, and covetous.”

Ere yet his speech was done,—with fury filled,
Nahor his sword drew forth,—by one quick stroke,
Rather than slow-paced words, reply to give:
But Ahab, springing forward, seized his arm;
“Hold! Art thou mad?” indignantly he cried:
“Would'st bring a foul disgrace upon us all?
Come not these men,—three men amid a host,—
In peaceful manner to confer with us;
And with the bloody steel would'st thou reply?”

That hearing, Nahor put his weapon back:
But still 'gainst Azareel his heart was wroth;
And how the most to incense him, was he bent.
Yet Azareel him heeded not; but thus
To Ahab spake.

“Let not, 'twixt us and you,
This man cause strife: but to Arbaces now
Do thou reply; and say,—why come ye back;
And unto whom your succour ye intend.
Surely, ye come not, in the oppressor's hands
To put a keener scourge; nor, upon them
That are already fettered, heavier chains!
Surely, the glitter of the tryant's gold,
The glare of his most lying promises,
Have not so dazzled you, that ye, for good,
Mistake worst evil!”

Wrathfully he spake;
His face began to kindle, and his voice
Tempest to threaten: but Belesis laid
His hand upon him, and, with calm tone, thus:
“Speak thou not farther now; but lend thine ear:
For Ahab is addressed to answer us.”

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Then Ahab, resting lightly on his spear,
Stood forth to speak unto them. A tall man
Was he; of bright and cheerful countenance;
And goodly to behold: his broad, fair brow
Spake kindness, courage, openness of heart.
First, on the captains round he cast his eye;
Then, on Arbaces; and, at length, began.

“Ye ask us, wherefore do we now return;
Whither we go; to whom—and for what end.
Amid three hundred thousand armëd men,
Ye three men come, and these things ask of us;
Yet cannot we refuse to speak with you.

“But, how, then, shall we answer? May we not
Justly first ask of you; and bid you say,
Wherefore thus bluntly ye interrogate?
May we not thither go, or hither come,
As to ourselves seems best? Surely, with right,
May we this thing require. Then, unto us
First answer thou; and say, why roughly thus
Ye question us; and why should we reply.
Are not your mighty men trod down like grass?
Are they not gone like sands before the wind?—
What weighs it then to you, which way we go,
Or wherefore—what we do, or leave undone?
I ask of you in peace.”

Arbaces then;
“And I, not less in peace, will answer thee.
We ask these things, because, to us, and you,
This matter more than life, or death, imports:
And ye must answer us, because a shame,
And foul injustice were it to refuse:
For, to the strong alone doth it belong
To question him who doeth wickedly?
Is justice, to the mighty man, one thing,
And, to the weak, another? Shall the throng
Of swords make virtue of iniquity?
If, as thou sayst, our hosts are trod like grass;
Are scattered like the dust before the winds,—
Lose we, thence, right to question the unjust?

“Yet, say I not that we are trodden down;

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Nay, I proclaim to you,—we are strong in arms,
In hope are confident; and that alike
With justice, and with power, we question you:
For, this day must we know you friends, or foes:
And that which on this day ye shall resolve,
Will in all times be famous, and all lands.”

While thus Arbaces spake, his voice grew stern,
And fearful; and his glance was like a sword
To whom it fell on. With a look perplexed,
Then Ahab answered him. “Thy words are dark,
And do amaze me. From the king came men
Who said: ‘Assyria's foes are melted off,
Like dew-drops when the sun ariseth bright;
Like grass beneath the giant's foot are crushed;
Are scattered as the sand when tempest wakes;
And never more shall’” . . . .

“Falsely spake they then,”
Broke in the Mede: “liars, or lie-deceived!
For, mark me,—were the tyrant's myriads here,
Leagued with your own to crush us—strength have we,
In one vast ruin to o'erwhelm them all!

“Trust not the treacherous guide, or in the snare
Soon shall your feet be fast. But, know ye not,
Men of the East, that dew, at morn drunk up,
Ere night, in storm and thunder may come down?
The grass that hath been crushed, will rise again;
The scattered sands, in whirlwind may return,
And tomb you where you stand. But now again
We pray you,—to the things that we have asked,
Let us have peaceful answer.”

Ahab then
Thus spake: “Thy words, half question, and half threat,
Truly and briefly will I answer now:
But, in thy turn, thou also unto us
Shalt give reply. When ye, of your own will,—
Our counsel asking not,—had drawn the sword;
And, in the fury of his wrath, the king
Threatened destruction on you,—in that day,
Were we not better friends to you—our aid

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To both refusing—than if, with the rest,
We had combined to crush you? Of a truth,
We then were sick of arms; and longed to go
Unto our wives, our countries, and our friends:
And, this to compass, we the vengeance braved
Of the indignant king. Seeks not each man
His own good, by the way he deemeth best?
If, in resistance, ye your vantage sought;
We, rather, in retirement sought for ours.
Ere ye called on us, ye had struck the blow:
We deemed you strong enough to wage the fight.

“But, all the fruit that victory to us
Could give, already stood within our reach;
Peace, and content, home, parents, wives, and friends:
Why, then, should we remain,—with toil, and blood,
The loss to risk of that which we had gained;
And which that peril, and that blood, and toil,
Could, at the last, but give? Your good ye sought
In the stern strife for liberty; but we,
In the enjoyment of our home, and ease.
Your choice we blame not; censure, then, not ours.

“Ye sent to sue our aid against the king:
The king sent, afterward; commanded, lured,
By promise, and by gold, our aid 'gainst you:
Yet neither unto him did we give ear;
But still went joyously upon our way:
In the green shady places taking rest;
Drinking amid the vineyards; and with fruits,
And savoury foods, one long and pleasant feast
Making amid the rich plains as we passed.

“But, from the king, at length, again came men,
Who said, ‘the rebels are trod down like worms;
Like a thin smoke they all have melted off;
Like dried leaves in the tempest have they fallen,—
Take ye, then, heed; for, now, 'gainst you the king
Hath aimed the thunder; and ye, too, shall fall,
And perish; unless quickly ye repent;
And turn again; and, with a solemn oath,
Vow to him everlasting fealty.
But, if his words ye hearken; and return;

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And thus swear to him,—then, will he forgive
The wickedness that 'gainst him ye have done.
And, of the chief among you, who the first
So hearken, and repent them, and return,—
Will he make governors of provinces,
Judges, and rulers: nay, to every man
That, on the first day, shall return to him,—
To each, in just degree, shall be reward.
And, when ye shall have come, and sworn to him
Allegiance unto death; then may ye all,—
All of you whose appointed year is run,—
Return unto your country: and no more
The anger of the king shall threaten you.’

“Arbaces, when these things were told to us,
A marvel seems it that we turned again?
Who loves not riches, honor, peace, and home,
Better than toil, and pain, in foreign land,
Peril, and, haply, death? We stayed our course,
And to the king turned back: for peace, and wealth,
To him invited us; but pain, and toil,
And danger threatened, if we held our way.
As we did, would not also ye have done?
Who, then, shall say we have done foolishly,
Or meanly, or the thing that is unjust?
And what, Arbaces, would ye have of us?”

So Ahab; and his captains were well pleased
At that which he had said. Arbaces, now,
To answer him, prepared; but, ere he spake,
Belesis, stepping forward hastily,
With tone impetuous thus.

“And ask ye, then,
Who shall say to you, ‘ye have done a thing
Unjust, and mean, and foolish’?—They that dwell
Where the sun riseth in the farthest East;
And they that see him when he goeth down
Into the ocean of the uttermost West!
The gray-haired man that shall to-morrow die;
And he that countless ages hence shall live!
I tell you, all the world will cry on you;
And, to the end of time, your names will stand

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Despised, and hated, if your wickedness
And folly ye behold not, and repent,
And turn again unto the better path.
See ye not, miserable that ye are!
In what foul pit ye are about to plunge?
Exclaim not; nor frown on me; but give ear.
Had ye yourselves into deep water fallen,
And cried aloud for help; and had the men
Who saw and heard you, answered mockingly,
‘Ye can swim strongly; and, albeit the flood
Do come against you, and the whirlpool ope
Its jaws to seize you, yet may ye escape:
Buffet the billows, therefore, to the last:
We cannot stay to help you; for our wives,
Our children, and our fathers wait for us:
We cannot stoop to draw you from the depths;
For there is toil and peril in the task;
And we ourselves might haply be dragged in.’—
Had they thus said to you, and gone their way,
And left you struggling in your agony;
Would ye not then have answered them, ‘Pass on!
Selfish and heartless! go upon your way!
And, unto us as ye this day have done,
So may just Heaven requite it unto you!’

“Men of the East—and is it not even so
That ye to us have done? Have ye not passed,
When we for help cried out; and, in the hour
Of our great struggle, left us to our fate?
And herein have ye not done wickedly,
Basely, and foolishly? But ye reply,
That ye, by your own way, your own good seek:
And unto you I answer that, even so,
Do the vile thief, and midnight murderer:
I say to you, most evil is your good;
And your flowered path must in destruction end!
What! are ye then so weak, so blind, so crazed,
That in the lion's talons ye would go,
Assured that he would dandle you, and feed,
Fondle, and make disport with you? Insane!
Like young kids would he rend you; lap your blood!

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Already in his palace-den he roars,
Rejoicing that his victims are at hand.
Honors, high places, do ye look to have;
Riches, and power? Infatuate! Stripes, and chains,
And ignominy, would your honors be:
Your riches would be shame, and poverty:
Your power, and your high places, would be graves!
Think ye the tyrant calls you to forgive,
And to reward you? Think ye that, for love,
He needs must see you; and with warm embrace
To his heart compress you? Do his eyes rain tears,
When all your faithfulness to him, in hour
Of danger so well tried, he calls to mind?
And will he of you all make governors,
Judges, or kings? Oh! hasten to him then;
And leap into his fatherly embrace:
Be unto him as duteous sons; and he
Will surely take you to his heart, and say,
‘Ye are my children; I your father am!’

“And is it thus ye hope to be received?
Tremble! and pause! for, when he cometh on,
Ye shall behold the earthquake at your feet!
Hath he already lured you with a lie;
And will ye still believe him? Said he not
That we were gone like darkness at the morn?
But we are many, and strong, and ardent yet:
Said he not also, ‘come unto me now,
And I will pardon you, and set you high,
In place, and power, and give you of the spoil?’
In this thing also speaketh he a lie;
And will ye yet believe him? Ah! be sure,
His pardon would be bonds, and ignominy,
And chastisement, and death! Then would ye wail,
And beat upon your breasts, and cry aloud,
‘Oh! that we had but done the righteous thing;
Had hearkened when the oppressëd called on us;
And given our swords to cut the nations' bonds!
Oh! that we had but listened to the words
Of wisdom; and had not lent willing ear
Unto the lying tongue! upon us then

291

This grievous burthen had not fallen; these stripes,
These chains, these mockeries! every man, content,
In his own vineyard might have sat him down;
Of his own fig-tree eaten! and his sons,
His children's children, might have blessëd him!
But, now, we are a loathing and a mock!
They that go by, do hiss, and spit at us;
And they that are afar off, wag the head,
And point at us, and laugh the laugh of scorn!
Oh! that we had but died before this day!’

“Men of the East—so would ye wail, and cry,
If basely with the oppressor ye could join,
And triumph with him in our overthrow!
But, not with you remaineth more the power,
'Twixt him and us to balance: life, with us,
And honor;—or black infamy, and death
Immediate here—your sole alternate now!
If, blindly obstinate, ye still refuse
The hand that we hold forth; think not on us
To set the conquering foot; nor to the king
Base aid to give: ye shall yourselves be crushed;
And the strong walls shall yet be cast to earth;
For so the hand of God hath written it;
So in their courses the bright stars proclaim!
Will ye then for us, or against us, stand?
In honor live, or die in infamy?
Will ye with us go on, to break the chain;
Or die in base attempt to rivet it?
We wait your answer: but, beware! beware!”

He ended sternly. Like to coals of fire,
His eyes burned; but his face was deadly pale.

His speech astonished; and no few alarmed;
So that among the captains, for a while,
Was anxious silence. But, at length, once more
Spake Nahor; for he feared lest, answered not,
Such words might stir the leaders 'gainst the king.
With the low tone of scorn and hate,—fear-checked,
At first spake he; but soon, to frenzy fired,
In a loud torrent gave his malice vent.

“Strange things, O prophet! dost thou tell to us:

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And with good reason may we silent stand,
And pallid thus of hue, if what thou sayst,
Be of a verity the word of God.
But, how then shall we know it? Canst thou not
Give unto us some token that these things
Are, of a truth, revealings from above;
And not thine own vain dreams? If by the hand
Of God they have been written; show to us
The characters thereof, that also we
May read them, and believe. The king, thou sayst,
Speaketh a lie; give not your ear to him;
But who, then, will assurance render us
That what ye speak is true? Ye said, and say,
‘The strong walls surely shall be overthrown;
The king shall perish;’ but, like rocks the walls
Stand yet; the king is mightiest of all kings.
How then shall we believe you? Ye demand,
‘For, or against us, will ye draw the sword?
In honor will ye live; or die in shame?’
Easy the answer; for, where breathes the man
That would not rather far in honor live,
Than in dishonor die? But, who shall say
If ye invite us to the way thereof?
How know we if, with you to draw the sword,
Be not with shame to die? if, for the king
To stand, be not with honor to live on?
Is it a thing, then, of such common course,
For the defeated in renown to live;
The conqueror in infamy to die;
That we unto your words, with open ears
Must listen; and do even as ye would;
Nor dare to ask ‘how will ye show these things?’

“Where are your armies now, your spears, and swords,
Your mail-clad horsemen, and your charioteers,
With which to bring about this mighty work?
Are they not swept away from off the earth,
Like mist of morning when the tempest comes?
Bring them before us; let us see the strength
That shall these great things do: then, to your words

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Haply we may attend. But ye are cheats,
Abominations—hateful—false as hell!
With the foul lying tongue are come to us;
And with the cunning, and malignant heart,
To lure us also to the fatal pit
In which your feet have fallën. Hypocrites!
Scourgings, and scoffs, and spittings, fitter were,
Than peaceful words, to answer you. Again
I do demand,—where are your mighty ones,
Your mail-clad horsemen, and your charioteers?
Your hosts that shall the city throw to earth?
Will ye put sword within the mouldering hand,—
Upon the rotten corse put helm and mail?
Back with you then! unto your dens get back,
And hiding-places; and seek never more
To poison with your venomed lies our hearts!”

He ceased; for passion choked him: like dark flame,
His lurid face; his mouth was thick with foam.
But, as he spake, spake also not a few,
Crying in mockery, “Show to us your might;
Your chariots, and your horsemen; show to us
The men that shall the eternal walls throw down;
Bring them before us, that we may believe.”

But not, as yet, Arbaces would reply:
With anger boiling o'er, when Azareel
Upon the speech of Nahor would have burst,—
Still had he checked him; when the impetuous priest,—
All caution lost,—would on him have poured forth
His wrath in torrents,—on the lifted arm
Gently had touched him, and in whisper calmed.

But, when the tumult was a little stilled;
Again before the captains he stood forth,
And,—unto Nahor deigning not reply,—
Looked round upon the rest, and solemnly
Thus spake unto them: “We in peace have come
Among you; and with insult been received!
Yet, not in anger would we answer you;
For still we trust the evil thought will pass;
The evil tongue be mute; the evil deed
Repented of; and that ye yet will see

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The righteous path before you; and will gird
Your loins up, and set forward manfully,
To run the good race, the good battle fight.

“Men of the East—then hear me; weigh my words;
For now the day is come that ye must live
New life; or perish in your wickedness!

“Shoot not the lip of scorn, nor shake the head;
The day is come; the hour! and o'er you now
The hand of God is stretched, to lead you on,
Or in your guilt to crush you! Hear me, then.

“Do ye love thraldom, more than liberty?
Than honor, do ye more love infamy?
With the oppressor would ye join to oppress,
Rather than aid the oppressëd to get free?
Assyria's king do ye dread more than God,
That ye would aid him to do wickedly?
Is all your ancient fame forgotten now,
Or prized no longer? In the days of old,
When at the feet of the Assyrian fell
The vanquished nations,—at the Bactrian hills
First was his hot course stayed: for your stern sires
Loved iron liberty, amid their vales
And mountains, more than silken slavery
Within the gorgeous palaces of kings!
They fought like lions that defend their young
Against the hunters: they no foot of ground
Gave up, that was not flooded with their blood:
At night defeated, on the morrow still,
Fiercer for fight they came: the morning's hurt
They bound; and drew again the sword at eve:
Thirst, hunger, toil, and death, did they endure;
But slavery they never could endure!
They fought, they bled, they triumphed, and were free!

“Such, men of Bactria! your forefathers were;
Such their eternal honor! But, alas!
For you what shall I say? Lions are ye,
That give your young into the hunter's hands,
And say, ‘do with them even as you list:’
Blood do ye shed; but 'tis the blood of kid,
Lamb, sheep, or ox, of which ye make your feast!

295

Your valour is submission to your foe!
Ye court the fetters, and are proud of bonds!
Lift not your voices, for I will be heard:
Clap not the hand, nor laugh, lest other sounds
Stop short your mockery? Hear me! I demand!”

With power tremendous spake he; and his look
Grew terrible, that those who stood at hand,
Drew backward, fear-struck. Over all the din,
His voice uplifting sternly, he pursued:

“Where are our horsemen, do ye ask me still,
Our chariots, and our spearmen, and our swords?
Hark to the answer, men of Bactria!
Our horse, and cars, before you block the pass:
Spearmen, and archers, seal it up behind!
Fast prisoned are ye,—never to go forth,
Till ye have seen your error; and have sworn,
In face of highest Heaven, with us to join,
Against the oppressing city and the king.
Nay—yet a little longer hear me—hear,—
A little longer” . . . .

With uplifted hands,
So he, conjuringly; but no man heard.

“Our feet are in the snare! Into the pit
We have all fallën! We shall perish here;
And leave our bones to moulder!”

Piteously
So wailed out many,—looking here, and there,
Wild with bewilderment. And, when the troops
That tumult heard, from off the ground they sprang,
And called out also,—running to and fro,—
Confused, and wonder-stricken, and afraid.

But some among the captains cried, “Send out
Before us, and behind, to try the pass;
That we may know the truth.” Others exclaimed,
“Men of the East! be still; he uttereth lies.”
But Nahor drew his sword; and toward them sprang,
Franticly yelling, “Let them die the death!”

From him some caught the madness; and the din
Grew terrible; swords flashed, and spears were raised.
But Ahab, and Abihu, cried aloud,—

296

And, with them, of the captains not a few,—
“Hold! touch them not, or we may perish all!
Keep back! and let us farther question them.”

So calling out, they, also, drew the sword;
And more the discord and confusion raged.

Belesis, meantime, cried unceasingly,
And Azareel,—to this side and to that,
Turning, with upraised hands; conjuring all;
Imploring them for silence: but in vain.

With folded arms, brow darkened, eye of fire,
And lip compressed, Arbaces for a time,
A calm awaiting stood. But when, at length,
Too well he saw the storm abated not;
Nay, every instant gathered fiercer rage,
And threatened to o'erwhelm them,—then he looked
To the rock-summits,—lifted up his arm;
And, over all the tumult sending forth
A shout that made air quiver, cried, “Arise!”

The Median captains, watching on the heights,
Beheld, and heard; sprang upright; raised their arms;
And, hot as trumpets sounding the assault,
Sent on the word, “Arise!”

As if the cliffs
Had opened, and given forth an armëd brood,
Sprang from their hiding-places then the Medes;
And with the thunder of their shoutings shook
The firmament,—that on the Bactrian host
Fell terror: their strength failed them; and their tongues
Clave to the palate. Looking up, they saw
To north, and south, the bow, the lifted spear,
The bar of iron brandished. But no rock
Was loosened from its hold; no spear was cast;
No arrow was let go.

Thrice did the Medes,
Thus thunder o'er their heads; then lowered the spear;
Relaxed the bow; laid down the iron bar;
And stood in a deep silence. All the host
Of Bactria likewise in deep silence stood;
Palsied with fear and wonder.

But, at length,

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Abihu, trembling, toward Arbaces ran;
By the arm grasped him, and cried piteously,
“Speak to us,—speak,—and let this day be peace.”
Arbaces then looked round, and thus began.

“Said I then falsely,—we are strong in arms;
In hope are confident; and that alike
With justice, and with power, we question you?
Men of the East—now hearken to my words:
And, as with us you deal, even so with you
May God deal also! Ye are many, and brave;
Yet now your lives are but as one man's life;
And, the word spoken, ye are all dead men!
The pass is stopped before you, and behind;
Arrows, and spears, on both sides threaten you;
The rocks are loosened; and the bars await
To hurl them down, and grind you as the corn
Beneath the millstone. Then, for tyranny,
Will ye all perish? or, for liberty,
Live on, and triumph? Shall I call down friends,
To give you the embrace of brotherhood;
Or summon the rock-storm to bury you?
For life, or death, now speak ye? for our cause,
Or for the tyrant's?”

From the captains then,
And from the soldiers also, who far off
Had heard him,—for with powerful voice he spake,—
A cry arose, “The Medes! the Medes! the Medes!
With them against the city will we go!
We will go on against proud Nineveh!”
Many cried also, “The deceitful king
Falsely hath spoken, to destroy us all!
Against him and his city will we go.”

Then Ahab, in the sight of all, stepped forth,
And bowed before the Mede: from his own loins
The sword ungirded; the bright helmet took
From off his head; and with loud voice, that all
His words might hear, thus spake. “Assuredly,
Thee hath God named the chief of all these hosts;
That thou may'st lead them on triumphantly
Into the stronghold of Assyria's king,
And to his gorgeous palaces! Behold!

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Into thy hands, then, do I yield the rule;
And will an oath swear to thee; and thy word
Obey; and in this cause fight zealously:
For now I am persuaded that, in truth,
Thou art the chosen of God; and that, through thee,
Will He do great things for us.”

Saying thus,
He bent unto the Mede his knee; the sword,
And helmet laid before his feet.

Then all
The captains, and the soldiers who beheld,
Rejoiced, and clapped the hand, and cried aloud,
“Long live Arbaces, chief of all the hosts!”

Arbaces then raised Ahab from the ground,
And to his bosom clasped him: on his head
The helm replaced; the sword around his loins
Regirded; and with cheerful voice thus spake.

“Wisely and well in this thing hast thou done;
And thy great error of the past redeemed;
For unto thee will chiefs and soldiers look;
And, as thou dost, so, haply, will they do.
But turn thee now, and to the captains speak;
That we may surely know how they incline.
Let, then, all those whose hearts are on our side,
Stay here in the cool shadow: but, let those
That are against us, stand upon the north.
Then shall be seen whereon our hope doth rest.”

So he; and Ahab, as he willed him, turned,
And to the captains with a firm voice spake:

“Men of the East: Ye see in what a strait
We now do stand; that, either in this pass,—
Like that old king of whom last night we spake,—
Melchisedek,—we our unburied limbs
Must to the vulture and the wild dog leave;
Or with the Medes a solemn covenant vow;
And take up wholly here our lot with them:
For never may the wine-cup, or the feast,
Or joys of love, be his, who solemnly
Would lie to Heaven, and, with low cunning, think
To cheat God, and from peril so to 'scape!

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For me, I do behold in this thing now,
The hand of Heaven stretched forth, some mighty work
To accomplish: and I do confess to you,
That we too easily, I think, did lean
To the suggestion of a selfish heart,
That made the joys of home, and peace, outweigh
All things beside; and tempted us to leave,
Ingloriously, a strife” . . . .

“Said I not so?”
Breaking upon his speech, cried Azareel:
“Said I not so unto you, on that night
When ye did scoff my prayer, my warnings mock?
Men of the East! redeem your error now!
What to Assyria's tyrant do we owe?
What know we of him, save as of the power
That all the nations holds in vassalage?
Scarce can the sun at once o'erlook the lands
That call him lord: into his chests are poured,
The congregated riches of the east:
To every country, doth his will appoint
The governor; and from the height of power,
Whomso he will, he, by a word, doth cast.

“But, is he, then, more mighty than all men?
Hath he subdued us by a stronger arm;
Or to a loftier wisdom made us bow?
No! amid women have his conquests been!
His wisdom hath been potent at the feast!
Thus long have we lain prostrate at his feet
Because we ne'er before have striven to rise!
For ages have the nations tamely owned
Assyria's king their lord: but they whose power
Subdued them, lived far back; their bones are dust!
They, truly, with the arm of might struck down
Who dared resist them; and upon their necks
Planted the conqueror's foot; for they were strong,
And fierce, and terrible to look upon.
But, since that day, the vanquished East hath lain
Like to a giant stunned, who knoweth not
That he who struck the blow, himself hath fallen.

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But, let her now in all her strength arise;
And the strong cords that bound her to the earth,
Like to burnt flax shall snap!”

So he; and thus
Ahab, the fervor catching, called aloud:
“Speak then at once, men of the East, and say,—
Will ye here perish, faithful slaves to him
Who hath oppressed you, and with lies deceived?
Or will you with the Medes swear fellowship;
Fight in their battles; and in freedom live?

“The king hath promised you the rebel's spoil:
But, let us promise to ourselves the spoil,
Far richer, of the fraudful king himself;
And of that tyrannous city, whose proud foot,
Through ages, hath all nations of the East
Trodden as dust; whose vaults o'erflow with gold,
And jewels; and whose nobles are as kings.
The spoil, at present, lives but in our hope;—
Be, then, that hope the brightest. Come ye now;
Let every man whose heart is with the Mede,
Stand on the southern side; but every man
Whose heart is with the king, go toward the north:
So shall be seen how are your minds disposed.”

He ceased; and closer toward the southern cliff
Himself moved instantly; and with him moved
The captains, every one that with him stood.

Then went Arbaces, and to Ahab spake,
And the chief leaders: “Send ye heralds now
Among the soldiers: and yourselves go too,
The tidings to proclaim. And even as ye,
Each for himself did choose,—so also they
Shall, each man of himself alone, make choice.
Let every soldier, then, when he hath heard,—
Even as he will, to north, or south, move on:
So shall be seen if their thoughts are as yours.”

Then Ahab spake unto the captains nigh,
And to the heralds. They throughout the host
Rode rapidly, and everywhere proclaimed
All which the Mede had said.

When this they had heard,

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The soldiers with glad heart went on, and stood
Beneath the shadow on the southern side:
And not a man among them all kept back.

That sight beheld,—from both the armies rose
Redoubled bursts of joy. From out the pass,
And from the hill-tops, to and fro were sent
The thunders of rejoicing.

When, at length,
The captains and the heralds had returned,—
To Ahab, and the rest, Arbaces spake.
“Ye have the wise path chosen; and we think
That 'gainst us in your hearts is no deceit:
But take ye, notwithstanding, in the sight
Of all around, the solemn oath to us:
Let every soldier also swear the oath;
Then, like a band of brethren, will we join;
And eat and drink together, and be glad:
And, as as one man, against the city go.”

Then, with accustomed rites, first Ahab sware;
And, after him, the captains, every one:
Fidelity unto the Medes they sware,
And to their chief, Arbaces: and no man
Than Nahor spake more eagerly and loud.
But him Arbaces called from out the throng;
And, with stern look, in sight of all, addressed:

“False speaker! shameless coward! hypocrite!
Who, in thy valour, wouldst have shed the blood
Of three men, that, for peaceful conference,
Amid three hundred thousand men had come;—
And of our weakness did'st thy mockery make;
And of the mighty Powers, who rule the earth;
In whom our trust is;—yet the first art now
To cringe, and bend the knee, and speak the words
Of servile adulation! get thee gone!
And stand no more with brave men who go forth
To execute the will of the great Gods.
Henceforth art thou degraded from thy state:
And he whom thou, by violence and lies,
Did'st from his rightful place hope still to keep,—
Again must stand, where thou should'st ne'er have stood.

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O'er all the Arachosian host, once more
Is Azareel the leader. As for thee” . . . .

Still spake he sternly, when, upon the ground,
With bended knee, and lifted hands, his doom
To avert, fell Nahor: yet Arbaces him
Regarded not; but to the heralds turned,
And said unto them; “Strip his arms away,
And drive him forth: then, as he runs, cry out,
‘Behold the coward, and the hypocrite!’”

On Nahor soon the heralds laid their hands;
Took from him the bright helmet, and the mail,
The sword, the gleaming shield; and drove him forth.
But, as he ran, still followed him, and cried,—
While all the soldiers laughed, and mocked, and hissed,—
“Behold the coward, and the hypocrite!”

Then, afterward, the heralds rode around
To every legion; and, with customed rites,
The solemn oath took from them. To the Medes,
And to Arbaces, every man made oath.
And, when it was beheld that all had sworn,
Both hosts again exulted mightily,
And clapped their hands for joy.

Arbaces then
Commanded that the Medes on the hill-tops
Backward should go; and, on the open plain,
In order wait the coming of their friends.

To Abdolonimus, who, with the horse
And chariots, filled the entrance of the pass,
Likewise sent he; and bade, as brethren, hail
The Bactrians; and in peace let them come forth.

Also to those who, at its eastern end,
The pass had closed, he sent; the tidings glad
That they might know, and hasten their return.

Quickly arrayed, the Bactrian army then,
In ordered march went forward; foot, and horse,
The chariots, and the camels, and the wains.
Standards waved high; the warlike instruments
Spake out; and every heart was filled with joy.

But, when both armies to the open plain
Had come, they stopped: the captains of both hosts

303

Embraced each other; and the soldiers, too,
Like friends of old, embraced: then afterwards,
Till sunset,—for the day was now far spent,—
Feasted together, and like brethren were.

But, in the evening, to the Arabian king,
And to Belesis, Ahab spake apart:
“Well know we now, from that which ye have said,
How that the king with subtlety hath sought
To lure us to the death: in his own snare
Then let him fall; so justice shall the best
Be meted to him. Therefore, will I send,
At morn, swift messengers, who thus shall say;
‘The Bactrians, thy servants, king of kings!
Repent them of the sin which they have done;
And will return to thee, and bow to earth,
And yield themselves unto thy clemency.
Upon the twelfth day hence will they return:
And, as the king hath promise made to them,
So surely will he do; for now his foes
Are fallen; and who shall stand before his might.’”

Thus Ahab; nor his purpose was opposed.
Then summoned he the messengers; three times
The words spake clearly to them: and, with dawn,
Bade them depart.

Ere long, throughout the camp
No sound was, save the tread of sentry's foot.

But, at first tinge of daybreak, from sound sleep
Rose the glad armies; steeds and cars prepared;
Mail donned; their arms got ready; food and drink
In haste despatched; then all in silence stood,
Waiting the Day-God's coming. Cloud, nor mist,
Darkened the crystal sky-vault. Gentle airs
From the cool north came whispering in the ear,
As if good tidings bringing.

More and more
Shone the fire-kindling east. A dazzling spark
Gleamed suddenly,—the Light-king's jewelled crown
Was rising; and the vast expanse of sky
Thrilled to his glorious presence. All eyes saw;
To earth sank every knee; and every voice,

304

Low murmuring, sent up praise, and fervent prayer
For blessing on their righteous enterprise.

A traveller on the mountains might have paused,
Listening the murmur multitudinous,
And thought he heard the moan of far-off sea.

Prayer ended, they arose; in broad, loose line,
For march arrayed themselves; and anxiously
Stood waiting for the signal. Trumpet-blasts,
From van to rear, and lifted gonfalons,
Throughout the host proclaimed it; and at once,—
To the strong tread of those innumerous feet,
Down planted eagerly; the roll of wheels;
And hoof-spurn of the myriads of hot steeds,
All in same instant loosed,—the firm ground shook.

Then sounded loud their martial instruments;
And the vast armies sang together hymns
To Bel omnipotent, and the gods of war:
And, singing, they marched onward. Every eye,
In spirit-vision, saw the Titan walls,
Of the proud city flaming to the clouds;
And every ear the mighty roarings heard;
The crash and thunder of her overthrow.

So went they all rejoicing on their way.

BOOK THE FIFTEENTH.

Meantime Sardanapalus, with the pride
Of victory made drunken, as with wine,—
Self-glorying, said: “Lord of the earth am I!
Who shall control me? what can harm me now?”

And when the captains of the cars and horse
Who had pursued,—returned, and said to him,
“Arbaces is gone down into the pit;
Thine enemies are scattered like the dust,”—
More swelled his heart with glory of his might:
Unto the music of the flatterer's tongue
More pleased he listened; every fear shook off;
And, with a madman's leap, into the flood
Of sensual joys plunged headlong. For, not now,
As erst, amid his concubines alone,
Or some few chosen revellers, he sat:
The hall immense—in which, from end to end
Ere it could reach, must a strong warrior's arm,
At utmost strain the chosen arrow send—
Now often with unnumbered golden lamps
Blazed through the night. The roof of burnished gold
Poured sunshine down; the walls of porphyry,
Bright gleaming; and the jasper pillars vast,
Up to the proud roof shooting,—flung the light,
As from the face of polished mirrors back.
At costliest tables, ebony and gold,

And ivory, with rarest gems inlaid,—
On silken couches, stiff with woven gold,
His nobles, captains, and chief ministers,
And women of the city, beautiful,
Radiant in garments of all delicate hues,
Sat at the frequent feast. From golden cups,
Rich wines they quaffed; from vessels of pure gold,
On every luxury which the fruitful East
Could yield, they feasted. Music, dance, and love,
Followed the banquet; and the morning sun
On the unfinished revel oft arose.

So did the king his good resolves forget.
And when Azubah, prostrate at his feet,
Pardon for her unhappy father sued,
Harshly did he repulse her. “Twice have I
At thy sole prayer life granted him. Fool he,
Who, for the third time, would the viper trust,
That twice had striven to sting him! Then, desist:
Both canst thou never serve. Him leave, or me:
My palace, or his prison—which thou wilt—
That choose; the other quit, and murmur not.”

Azubah then wept bitterly; and went
Unto her father, to abide with him.

When her Rabsaris saw; and heard that she
A prison, with her father, rather chose,
Than a proud palace, with Assyria's lord,—
His stern heart melted: on her neck he fell;
Embraced, and kissed her; and wept out aloud.

Yet loved she still the king; and many a sigh
Breathed after him, and murmured oft his name.
Nor was the haughty monarch all unmoved
When that best loved one went: but his proud heart
'Gainst her he strove to harden; and in thoughts
Vain-glorious to seek comfort. “Lo the Mede,
The boastful, and the terrible, is fallen!
His iron arm, that made the thousands quail,
Is now as potter's clay; his dreadful voice,
Hushed as a last year's tempest: that fierce eye
Which, like the lightning, flashed upon his foes,
Dull as cold ashes lies. Ah! rebel base!

So is thy glory vanished as a dream!
Where be thy armies now? thy countless foot;
Thy steel-clad horsemen; and thy charioteers;
Wherewith thy boast was, the eternal walls
To overthrow; and leave no stone behind?
Even as the fleecy clouds of yestermorn
That the wind scattered, have they passed away.
So have they perished! so shall perish all
Who impiously their hands against the king
Have lifted; or his bidding set at nought!
Woe to you, men of Bactria! on you next
The avenging arm shall fall. The sword shall smite
Your captains; and your soldiers shall be given
For slaves unto the nations. Ah, accurst!
When, in my trouble, I did send to you,
And say; ‘behold the rebel waxeth strong;
Haste to me, then, and in my battles stand,’—
Ye would not hearken; but my bidding scorned;
And, laughing, mocking, went upon your way.
But now, because it hath been said to you,
‘The king hath vanquished all who 'gainst him stood:
Hath trod them like the sand beneath his feet:
Return ye, then, obedient; and bow down
Before him; and your sin shall be forgiven:
Yea, ye shall wealth, and fame, and honors have;
For the king's vengeance now is satisfied;
And blood shall flow no longer’—because thus
It hath been told you, lo! you hither come,
As to a joyous banquet. Now ye send
And say, ‘upon the twelfth day will we come:
And, as the king hath promised, even so
Surely will he deal with us.’ Rebels! fools!
The riches that ye look for, shall be stripes!
Your honors shall be mockery, chains, and death!
So shall your insolence meet fit reward;
And every heart of all the nations quake,
And tremble at the anger of their lord.
But, meantime, ere the tenth day, will I feast
My armies on the plain; and gladden them;
And make them strong to tread the rebel down!”

Thus in his heart revolved the subtle king;
But his design to no man would make known;
Lest, haply, to the Bactrians might be told
The fate which waited them; and they might 'scape.

Then, that same day, as at the feast he sat,
Amid his nobles and his valiant men,
He spake to them, and said: “Behold, each day
The king, his nobles, and his captains feast:
But the brave soldiers, who his battles fought,
Feast not at all. This shall no longer be.
Through camp, and city, thus be it proclaimed.
‘The fourth day hence, upon the northern plain,
Shall the whole army banquet: and the king,
His lords, and captains, and chief ministers,
Shall eat and drink among them. For two days,
From noon till midnight, shall they hold the feast.
Of all delicious things, abundantly
Shall every man partake; and richest wines
Their hearts shall gladden, and their arms make strong.
But, on the seventh day, shall the legions pass
Before the king, for combat all arrayed;
And then his farther purpose will he speak.’”

He ended; and, with tumult of acclaim,
The nobles and the captains all rejoiced;
And clapped the hand, and cried, “long live the king.”
But they whose task it was, at once went forth;
And, as the king had spoken, made proclaim.

Then all within the city shouted loud;
And all the host throughout the camp; for joy
Filled every heart; and every voice cried out,
“Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!”

On that night,
The king, and twice a thousand lords, and chiefs,
Who with him revelled, drunken were with wine,
And wantonness; and great their folly was.

But, in the city, and throughout the camp,
The sound of preparation for the feast,
All night was heard. Through the wide opened gates,

Went forth unceasingly the loaded wains:
Hammer, and axe, and saw, their labor plied:
Voice answered voice; with fires the plain was bright;
And all the city, with the torches' flare.

Upon the morrow; and the second night;
And till the fourth day, at the hour of noon,
The sound of labor ceased not. Through the camp,
Huge fires incessant blazed. Of sheep, and goats,
And oxen, and all creatures yielding food,
Were slain innumerable. And of fruits
Delicious, from all climes, was gathered there,
As for a feasting nation. Of all wines,
Rosy, and golden hued, and luscious drinks,
Great was the abundance. With unnumbered tents,
The champaign broad was covered; every tent
Wide open, and the tables spread within.

'Midst of the camp—as if by magic built,—
Gorgeous, and vast—high soaring over all—
Stood the pavilion of the king of kings.
Six cubits from the ground, the floor was laid:
Its length a hundred cubits; and its breadth
A hundred: fifty cubits was its height.
The wood was cedar; and, on every side,
Were cedar stairs capacious. Pillars strong
Of cedar, at due distance placed apart,
The roof supported. With rich purple silk,
Spattered with gold, was every pillar wreathed.
Green were the silken cords; the tassels gold:
The dome-like canopy was silk, sky-hued;
And, all around, a silken network fringe,
Pale green, with threads of gold entwisted, hung.
The silken curtains, of pale amethyst,
Were wide withdrawn, and to the pillars looped
In graceful sweep; so that by every eye
The rich interior well might be beheld.
Full in the centre, underneath the dome,
Where stood the couch and table of the king,—
Another cubit still the floor was raised.
Rich stuffs of crimson hue a carpet made.

The tables for the guests were ebony,

With gold inlaid: the couches were rich stuffs,
Embroidered thick with silver: but the couch
Of the voluptuous monarch was of silk;
Purple, and stiff with gold, and golden fringed.
His massive table was of beaten gold;
And every vessel that upon it stood
Was gold, or silver; or some lustrous stone,
By cunning workman wrought. The serving men
Who at the feast should wait,—in garments white,
With silver edged, were clothed: around their necks
Were collars of pure silver; and their loins,
With belts of purple silk, gold-edged, were girt,
And buckles of pure gold. So gorgeous shone
The great pavilion of Assyria's king.

A spear-cast round it, was there vacant space:
A circle, then, of splendid tents, for those,
Nobles, or chiefs, who with the king sat not;
And still beyond, in circles widening still,
The tents thick clustered, of that countless host.

'Twixt the pavilion, and the Nisroch gate,
A broad smooth path was left: on either hand,
A line of bright-eyed girls, and smiling boys,
In gay attire, all bearing choicest flowers,
To cast before the coming of the king.

With many a glance impatient now they looked
Along the path, expecting when the gate
Should open: and the eyes of every man,
That could behold it, on the gate were fixed:
For now the noon was passed; the feast was spread;
And for the presence of the king, alone,
The myriads waited.

Soon was heard a shout
Within the city; then the clangor shrill
Of silver trumpets; the clear cymbal's ring;
The sound of many instruments sweet-toned;
And choiring voices singing joyfully.

Anon the brazen portal opened wide,
And the bright train came forth.

In garments white,
Gold-edged, and bearing chaplets in their hands,

Came first a troop of youths, and virgins young:
The singers, male and female, then, in robes
Azure, and silver-rimmed; and, after them,
The trumpeters, in scarlet and in gold;
And the musicians in great multitude.

On horses, gorgeously caparisoned,—
Short space behind, a band of captains came;
And haughty nobles, flaming all in gold,
Jewels, and festive robes magnificent.

Them following close, a troop of jocund boys,
And girls, in vesture of bright emerald,
Gold-fringed, came onward, dancing airily:
And then, with glory dazzling every eye,
The sun-like chariot of the king of kings.
Eight cream-white horses, glittering all with gold;
Tossing the head, and champing on the bit;
With flashing eye, arched neck, and nostril spread,
Foot high uplifted, and impatient snort,
Drew on the blazing car. By every steed,
A captain of the guard walked heedfully.

Alone within his chariot sat the king:
The burning crown was on his head; his robe
Was like one waving diamond. Behind,
In splendid chariots, rode his concubines,
Richly arrayed, but every countenance veiled.

Last of the glittering train, another troop
Of nobles, and of captains, on their steeds
Came riding haughtily; with gold and gems
All glittering, as though each a king had been.

Still, as the wondering multitude looked on,
They lifted up the voice and cried aloud,
“God save the king! long live Assyria's king!
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
May the king live for ever!” To the sound
Of instruments, and voices singing loud
Triumphant hymns, the dazzling pageant moved.

As slowly through the lines the monarch rode,
The joyous girls and boys their flowers cast down
Before him; on one knee bent gracefully,—
Drooping the arms, and bowing low the head,—

Then rose; and, when the whole proud train had passed,
Behind it went in orderly array,—
As they joined in, uplifting each the voice.
And, as the king went onward, all the host,
Hands waving, heads uncovered, swelled the hymn.
The sound of voices rose magnificent.

'Midst of the camp arrived,—with aspect proud,
Yet smiling, from his chariot came the king;
And, with his nobles and his mighty men,
Before him, and behind him, moving slow,
To the pavilion mounted. But, with him
His concubines went not; for, at the feast,
Before the eyes of all that multitude,
Unveiled they might not sit. When ceased the hymn,
They in their chariots to the city went.
The virgins, and young children of each sex,
Went also; but the stronger boys remained,
And roamed where'er they would.

At distance placed,
Round the pavilion the musicians sat,
That, when the king should order, they might play.
Then, when the monarch, and his lords and chiefs,
Each in his due degree, had sat them down,—
By sound of trumpets was the signal given,
The banquet to begin.

So, through the day
They feasted; and the hearts of all were glad.
Of every savoury thing the soldiers took
Abundantly; of spices, and of wines
The richest, and of every luscious fruit.
Throughout the spacious camp was heard the sound
Of timbrel, sackbut, harp, and dulcimer;
Of singers, male and female; now alone,
And now full choiring in triumphant hymn.

And, as the eve drew on, with the cool breeze,
The damsels of the city came abroad;
And with the nobles and the captains danced;
And with the soldiers,—each in her degree.
In bright attire were even the humblest gay:
The prouder, in rich robes of gorgeous hue;

Linen, like snow; silk, light as gossamer.
Their gleaming anklets were of burnished gold;
And golden chains, and strings of pearls, and gems,
Circled their necks: their ear-rings were pure gold,
And jewels; and their zones, of Tyrian dye,
Round the slim waist, with buckles of fine gold,
And gems, were clasped. Adown the shoulders, some,
Had dropped the ambrosial ringlets, waving loose;
Some, the rich tresses into graceful knots
Had woven; and in golden net-work bound,
Or strings of orient pearl. With jest, and laugh,
Flushed cheek, and sparkling eye,—foot, light as air,
And arm upflung, untired they trod the dance.

Great was the gladness over all the plain.
The monarch looked around him, and rejoiced;
Nor spared the wine-cup; but drank fearlessly;
And in his proud heart said, “Am I not now
A god amid these numberless? Who shall shake
My throne eternal? who again shall dare
Forbid the banquet, or the joys of love?
Have I not feasted? have I not drunk deep?
Have I not revelled 'mid my concubines,
Even till the sun arose? and hath aught ill
Fallen therefore on me? But, where now is he,
The pale-browed prophet who, with insolent tongue,
The banquet, and the water, and the fire,
Bade me to dread: and evil still denounced,
Unless unto his God, to Israel's God!
Obedient I should bow, and pardon sue?
Fool! madman! his own doom he knew not; mine
Still less could he have known. From the dark pit
His prescience saved not him: but I, the mocked,
The threatened, live; and over all the earth
Am great and glorious, even as a God.
Away, away then with the idle dream
Of the gaunt seer, famine and frenzy-bred;
I'll think no more on't.”

Thus the infatuate man—
Even while the bolt was pointed at his head,
Boasted, and scoffed at heaven.

Swift flew the hours;
Loud grew the revelry. When, at length, he knew
That every man had drunken plenteously,—
The king bade criers go throughout the camp
Commanding silence: and, when all was still,
To others thus he spake. “Proclaim ye now
And say, ‘let every man throughout the camp,
Take in his hand a vessel filled with wine;
And stand attentive. What the king shall speak,
Soon will be known to all: and, those same words,
Let every man speak also: afterward,
When the king drinketh, shall the trumpets sound,
Signal thereof: and, then, let every man
Drink likewise, and leave not a drop behind!”

Then, when the criers had his will proclaimed,
And every man had taken in his hand
A wine-cup, and in silence waiting stood,—
Slowly uprose the king, and lifted high
A brimming goblet. The resplendent bowl
Seemed as one ruby,—for the Day-god now
Was setting, and red glory on it poured.
A moment he stood silent, and looked round;
Then, with a strong voice, gave he out the word,—
“EAT, DRINK, AND LOVE: NOUGHT ELSE IS WORTH A THOUGHT.”

Promptly as speaks the thunder to the bolt,
Thousands of voices echoed it: from them
Catching the gay words, tens of thousands spake:
Hundreds of thousands heard, and shouted them.

After they all had spoken, and were still,
The monarch put the goblet to his lips,
And the quick trumpets told it. Every man
Raised then his cup, and drank, and left no drop.
Then sat the king: but still his nobles stood,
And all the host; for the musicians now,
And singers, a loud hymn of praise began:
“Sardanapalus, king of kings,” they sang,
“And lord of lords; sole ruler o'er all earth;
The great, the terrible, the armipotent.”

The monarch, on his couch reclining, heard;

And his vain heart more mad with pride became.
As ceased the hymn, the multitude sat down;
Again filled high their cups; and revelled on.

When now the sun had set, and twilight come,
The rich pavilion, by unnumbered lamps
Of gold, with oil of sweetest perfume fed,
As with a second sunshine was lit up.
Likewise the tents, where sat the lords and chiefs,
With lamps of silver and perfumëd oil
Shone brightly: but the soldiers, through the camp,
Kindled huge fires, that far along the plain,
And on the brazen gates, and walls, and towers,
And palaces, a trembling radiance flung.
Loud roared the countless fires: more loud the din
Of all those myriads in their revelry.

As, flushed with wine, the king upon his couch,
With eye half closed, reclined; a timid hand,
Touching his robe, he felt; and, at his feet
Kneeling, beheld Azubah. Her soft eyes
With tears were filled; her countenance was pale,
And sorrowful: her trembling hands she clasped,
And gently said, “My father!” But the king
Looked angrily, and cried, “What dost thou here—
A public spectacle! Thou knowest 'tis vain.
Never shall he be free! Away! away!”

Yet did she not desist: with streaming eye,
And quivering lip, “Oh! at the feast think thou
Of him that sitteth lonely! when thy heart
Is glad, oh! think of him that mourns!” Yet still
Unto her words the king would not give ear:
But yet more sternly spake; and stretched his hand
To thrust her from him. “Hence, fond woman; hence;
Lest that mine ire be kindled; and he die.”
But on his hand she seized, and held it hard:
“Hear me, O king, oh! hear me! Grant my prayer,
Or my life, too, thou takest.” And while thus
She spake imploringly, and struggled still
To hold his hand, she from his finger stole
The signet; and he knew it not; so wrath
And wine confounded him. Then, when his hand

He snatched away, and yet more sternly spake,—
She rose; and, answer making not, retired:
Mounted her chariot—to the prison flew—
Showed the dread sign which none might dare resist,—
And said, “bring forth my father instantly,
For the king calleth for him.”

Doubting nought,
The jailer from the captive took the chains;
Rich robes put on him, that more fittingly
In presence of the monarch he might stand;
And brought him forth.

The driver first dismissed,
Rabsaris climbed the car; seized rein and scourge,—
Looked for a moment in his daughter's face,
Lost in amazement,—spake not—then drove on.

But, as they rode together, she the truth
Told to her father; and he blessëd her.
A little way, as through the northern gate,
And to the plain, intent to pass, he drove;
But, leftward turning suddenly, sped on;
Through nearest western gate the city left;
And o'er the bridge, rejoicing, urged his flight.

Within the camp, meantime, the revelry
Yet hotter grew: wine, music, woman's smiles,
Inflamed all hearts; and each to each oft said,
“Eat, drink, and love: nought else is worth a thought.”

Long had the sun gone down: upon his couch
The monarch lay,—his eyes, with wine, and sleep,
Heavy, and dim.

But now before him stood
A damsel, beauteous as a flower of spring:
A dulcimer was in her snow-white hand;
And, as she played, a song of love she sang,
That stirred, and melted him. Her gem-starred zone,
As heaved and fell her bosom, might have seemed
With smiles now brightening, darkening now with sighs.
An atmosphere divine, the breath of love,
Like glory round the sun, encompassed her.
Her face was radiant as the pearly cloud
Of summer's dewy dawn: her hair like night,

When no star shineth. As she lifted up
The dark-fringed curtain of her lustrous eye,
'Twas like the glance of moonlight through swift clouds.
Her voice was soft as cooing of young dove
In a spring evening, when the nightingale
Singeth alone; yet breathed voluptuously
As the warm south, when flowers are in their bloom,
And the rain softly droppeth. The king's soul
Was melted at her voice: her lustrous eye
She turned upon him; and his breast was flame.

But now, among the nobles and great chiefs
With the king feasting,—a drear whisper ran:
Gay hearts were troubled; anxious faces met;
For, from the east, beyond the noisy camp,
Came men who said, “far off, as if in air,
Is sound like tramp of armies hurrying on!”

As spread the whisper, some turned pale; and some
Smiled in derision: many toward the king
Looked timidly; yet none dared speak to him;
For still the damsel sang; and all his soul
Was ravished by her beauty.

But, at length,
Hurriedly flying through the astonished camp,
Came a scared horseman,—from his courser leaped,—
Up the pavilion stairs sprang at a bound,—
With wild eye, like a maniac, glared about,—
Then, as with death-shriek, cried “Break up! Break up!
Eastward is heard a great host pressing on!
The earth is shaken by their horses' hoofs.”

Amazement then came over every man:
All started to their feet: some, terror-blanched,
Stood staring on their fellows: some, more bold,
Went hurriedly,—bent low before the king,
And told the tidings. Nought afraid was he:
Was he not conqueror—king of kings—earth's lord?
Were not Arbaces, and his rebel horde,
Scattered like chaff, or slain? The Bactrians, too,—
Were they not marching blindfold to the snare;
To scourgings, bonds, and death? What should he fear?
With smile complacent, then, he answered them.

“Think ye I heard not, clearly as yourselves,
What spake yon foolish? Of a verity,
He whispered not. But ye his ignorance
Know not as I. A host, indeed, may come;
But not as yet. The sound that hath been heard,
Is but the night-breeze, roaring in the fires:
They flare, as newly fed. Then, sit you down;
Fill to the brim your cups; be high in mirth;
And vex the king no more, lest he be wroth.
EAT, DRINK, AND LOVE: NOUGHT ELSE IS WORTH A THOUGHT.”
So he, and yet another goblet drained:
Then lay him down; and on the damsel fixed
His hot and glazing eye; and bade her sing.

But Salamenes the pavilion left
With hasty step, and sprang upon his steed.
Nebaioth, Jerimoth, and other chiefs,
Quickly went after him; and eastward rode
Impetuously, that they the truth might learn.

Swiftly throughout the camp the rumour flew:
Dance, song, harp, timbrel, mirthful sports, were stilled.
Gay women, laughing boys, at once stood mute;
Gasped as they heard; turned pale, and toward the gates,
Speechless with terror fled.

More dark, meantime,
And ghastly, grew the faces of the men,
Who with the king yet sat; for evil news,
Aye worse and worse, from trembling group to group,
In hurried whisper ran: yet their dread lord
None dared again approach.

The wine-cup still
Oft tasted he; till soul and sense were dulled
As in a dream: and even the damsel's voice—
For yet she sang, though tremblingly, and faint,
And blanched with awe—seemed scarce to move him now.

But, suddenly, far off, loud panic-cries,
And the dread trumpet-scream—signal of flight,—
Shot horror through all hearts. The wretched king
Rose staggering, stony-eyed, with arms outspread;
A look like his who riseth from the grave.

The nobles and the captains also rose,—
By the great terror so confounded all,
That no man knew which way to look, or move.
Louder and louder yet the tumult grew;
With harsher, quicker blasts the trumpets screamed.

Anon, a nearer cry, a wild shrill yell,
As of delirious myriads, rent the air;
“The Medes! the Medes! the Medes!” From East to West,
From North to South, o'er all the camp it flew.
They in the city heard: from street to street,
From wall to wall, the cry of terror ran.

From the pavilion, lords and captains fled;
And, with the fainting damsel, all alone
The king was left. Yet, the first shock o'ercome,
“Bring me my arms,” he stammered, “spear, and sword;
Shield, armour, chariot. I will wither them!”

But, bounding upward with a leopard's spring,
Nebaioth came, and caught him by the arm:
“Haste, haste,” he cried, “thy chariot standeth nigh:
Fly to the city; for the cup accurst
Hath overcome thee; and no strength remains
To bear thee in the strife. Nay—linger not;
For, if the king be slain, Assyria falls.”

Yet speaking, with a vigorous arm he drew
The tottering monarch: nor resisted he,
For soul and strength were quelled. But, as he went,
The damsel in a swoon upon the floor
Outstretched he saw;—and, with thick utterance, said;
“Take first the maid, and bear her to the car;
Else will I not go with thee.” Speaking thus,
Upon a couch he sank, and would not move:
Nor heeded that the priceless regal crown,—
Even as a peasant's cap, flung carelessly
From the hot brow,—had fallën to the ground.

Nebaioth, then, the maiden in his arms
Lightly uplifted; with a rapid step
The stairs descended; to the chariot climbed,
And placed her safe within. As from a sleep,
She wakened; gazed about her, and sat up.

Then to the king Nebaioth hurried back:
“Haste, haste, my lord,” he cried; “safe in thy car
The damsel sits; but the crowd thickens fast;
And, if we be entangled in the midst,
Ill may befall the king.”

While yet he spake,
O'er all the sounds of tumult rising high,
A distant voice he heard, that through his soul
Sent shuddering: “'Tis the dreadful Mede!” he said;
“The grave hath given him up to punish us!”

Yet to the king he told not what he heard;
But with more eagerness still drew him on,
And with more anxious urging.

All his words,
To a deaf ear were spoken. Pale as death,
With slackened joints, glazed eyes, and quivering lips,
Feebly the monarch tottered; muttering still,
“The banquet! Ha! the banquet! Lo! 'tis come,
The prophet's threat!—What said he? ‘Eastern king,—
Lords, captains, armies—midnight revelry . . .
Chariots and horse come on them! . . . Blood, like rain! . . .
Dead, thick as hailstones! . . . Tempest then, and flood . . .
Then earthquake . . . Fire . . . Destruction . . . Not one stone
Upon another left! . . . Flood . . . Earthquake . . . Fire!’”

Still muttering thus, Nebaioth drew him on:
Into the chariot raised him: sprang himself:
His right arm round him twined, lest to the ground,
Unaided, he might fall: to Dara then
Gave signal; and the horses bounded on.

Continually, with voices lifted high,
They called to clear the way; for, torrent-like,
The fear-struck myriads hurried toward the wall;
Thick covering all the ground. With fires the plain,
As 'neath a crimson sunset, hotly glowed;
And, as they onward moved, Nebaioth oft
Looked anxiously behind; for still the noise

Of horse and cars advancing, nigher came,
And the pursuers' shoutings.

But the king
In a deep stupor sat; nor uttered word;
Nor looked around; nor aught appeared to see.
Nor spake the damsel aught; but, with her robe,
Covered her face, and trembled, and bowed down.
Still on they moved; though slowly; for the press
Relaxed not; and, 'neath horse, and chariot wheels,
They feared their friends to crush. But louder, soon,
And louder, rose behind them the dire din:
And when, as they the nearest gate drew nigh,
Nebaioth backward looked,—at hand he saw
The lofty chariots, and the straining steeds,
Like swift waves coming on; and, over all
High eminent, the tower-like form beheld
Of the dread Mede; and, over every sound,
His strong voice heard, inciting to pursuit.

To Dara then he called; “On! on! lash on!
Drive like the hurricane! Call to clear the way,—
For, close upon us the arch-rebel comes,
Nor can the king resist.” Both then at once
Shouted vehémently; “Make clear the way,
Or be down trodden! Get from out the way!”

While thus he cried, Dara the horses smote,
That, like swift leopards darting on their prey,
Forward they hotly bounded.

Through the throng,
Wide opening, they dashed on; and cleared the gate.
Glad was Nebaioth then; “The king is safe!”
Joyfully cried he: but, even while he cried,
An arrow struck the damsel in the neck.
She spake not; struggled not; nor felt the wound;
But, stone-like, from the chariot dropped down, dead.
A second shaft Nebaioth's right arm grazed;
Slightly the monarch wounded, and flew on.
Roused by the smart, the king his head uplift,
And opened wide his eyes; but, instantly,
In a deep stupor sank again; nor knew
Whence came the pain; nor whitherward he went.

But the torn robe Nebaioth saw, and blood
Down trickling; and, when now they had advanced
Short space within the city, thus he spake.
“Dara, the king is wounded, sore oppressed,
The palace yet far off;—I counsel, then,
That rather to my house he should be borne:
There—the leech summoned, and the sore bound up,—
In quiet might he rest, and slumber off
The accursëd wine-fumes. 'Vantage this, beside,
That, should he rouse anon, and gather strength
To mingle in the conflict,—to the gates
Will he be nigher.”

Him the youth obeyed.
Then, when the car had stopped; and to the house
The monarch had been carried; thus again
To Dara spake Nebaioth: “Keep thou now
The chariot and the steeds within the court;
Lest enemies know the king is in the house:
But, be thou ready, when the word shall come,
To bring them on the instant; for, even yet,
May he go forth: send, therefore, for his mail,
His shield, and arms, that all may be at hand.”

As thus advised, the anxious charioteer
Did instantly: and, when the gates were closed,
That no man from without the car might see,—
He bade the grooms before the horses place,
As harnessed yet they stood, corn steeped in wine.
At every horse's head, a trembling groom
Stood feeding him: and, after they had fed
Abudantly, with hand upon the rein,
Each stood in silence, waiting the command.
Nigh to the chariot, with a restless foot,
Walked Dara to and fro; his bosom torn,
With thoughts conflicting, as the dreadful roar
Of havoc from beyond the walls he heard.

Meantime, upon a couch Nebaioth laid
The helpless king; his gorgeous robe took off,
And searched the wound. Like a keen knife, the shaft
Had lanced the arm, and still oozed forth the blood;
But injury was slight. A bandage then,

With tender hand, he bound upon the sore;
Disposed, for easiest rest, the passive limbs;
Then sat, to watch, and ponder. “What were best?
There to attend the waking of the king,
And aid his going forth? or speed to fight?
The soldier, not the nurse.” Long time he mused;
But, by the thickening uproar of the field,
Unbearably stirred at last, sprang sharply up;
Gazed for a moment on his senseless lord;
Called on the gods to shield him; and passed out.

Yet, ere departing, he his sister sought,
And briefly thus. “Beloved Rebekah, thou,
With thy handmaidens, hasten to the king;
And silently keep watch. Quick messengers
To Peresh have been sent: again I send;
Then arm me, and go forth. Yet, to what end!
Surely we have the gods displeasëd much,
Or not thus wrathfully would they have given
Our myriads to the sword! Farewell at once.”

So speaking, on her cheek a kiss he pressed,
And hastily withdrew; his armour donned;
Snatched spear, sword, shield—went forth—on his mailed steed
Vaulted,—and, like an arrow, cleft the air.

Dense was the throng that poured within the gate;
And long he labored, ere, against its rush,
A path he forced, and stood upon the plain.

Burst on him then a roar, as though earth gaped,
To let out hell. Hither, and thither, rolled,
Like battling waves along the howling beach,
The fear-struck multitudes. For life, for life,
Was all their struggle: honor, victory, now,
Unthought of quite: for, by their long debauch,
Enfeebled were they; arms, or armour, none
Had any man; and terror withered them.

Within the angle of a jutting tower,
Screened from the torrent of the fugitives,
Nebaioth for a time, despairingly,
The direful rout beheld; and with his soul
Thus questioned. “Sight of misery and dread!

Whither, oh whither shall I go! how hope
To render help! Upon the timid sheep,
Chased by the ravenous tiger, I as well,
To turn and face their enemy, might call,
As on this throng unarmed, and terror-struck.
And, were my voice the thunder,—in this din,
No man could hear me! Shall I tamely, then,
Stand, to behold the slaughter, and to die?
Or shall I not in thick of battle plunge;
And slay, ere I be slain? Is this the night
Predoomed; and by strange prophets oft foretold;
When the imperial city, like a torch
Extinguished, shall go out, and be no more?
And this, at last, the fell destroyer then;
The vanquished, the annihilated Mede?
Said not the men who came from long pursuit,
‘Arbaces is gone down into the pit!
Thine enemies are scattered like the dust,—
Like clouds of yesterday are gone for aye?’—
Falsely, then, spake they to Assyria's king,
To lure him to destruction? But, themselves
Are, also, in destruction overwhelmed!
Ah miserable! how have we been lulled
In hollow safety! Our foundations we
Have laid upon the earthquake's bed; and cried,
‘Surely our walls shall stand for evermore!’
On a smooth water have we sailed along,
Even to the cataract's brink; and, foolishly,
Said to ourselves, ‘let us lay down the oars,
And toil no longer; for our labor now
Is over; and the gentle stream will bear
Our vessel pleasantly; then, let us feast,
And sport, and lay us down to sleep!’ But lo!
We have awakened midway down the abyss!”

Thus pondering, an armed horseman he beheld,
Forth issuing; and to meet him went; for, now,
He saw 'twas Jerimoth. The face was stern,
Pallid, and anxious. Soon as he perceived
Nebaioth coming, Jerimoth approached;
And, close to his ear, with voice uplifted high,—

For deafening was the uproar,—sharply thus:
“Why linger'st here? the battle is not lost.”
“Lead on,” was the quick answer; and, at once,
Both horses spurned the ground. In his right hand,
Each warrior bore a spear; loose at his back,
The shield was slung; the sword was on his thigh.
Then, as they rode, thus Jerimoth pursued.
“Their horse and chariots, first, like torrent-flood,
Swept camp, and plain; and toward the river chased
Our unarmed soldiers: but, long after them,
Breathless, disordered, came their infantry.
With such as hastily had been equipped,
Them to encounter, Salamenes flew;
And, near the Well of Giants, backward drove.
To him I hasten now. By his command,
I sped into the city, to make known
Where conflict had begun; and send quick aid.
Ere long it will be here. The armouries all
Are open thrown; and they who make escape,
Snatch weapons thence, and hurry back to fight.
Our chariots, too, and horse, in multitudes,
Are hasting to the contest. If awhile
We can the onset of their foot resist,
Our horse and chariots from the gates will pour
Upon their horse and chariots in the rear;
And so divide their battle: but, meantime,
Into the river myriads will be driven,
Ere we can help; and myriads by the sword
Will perish! Oh accursëd be this night!
Accursëd our own folly! And the king—
What shall I say—If he hath sense to hear,
How hears he the hell-chorus of this field!
But word hath gone about that he is slain.
Even as he passed the gate, behind him close,
The chariot of Arbaces was beheld,
Pursuing; and his arrows flying thick.
A shaft, 'tis said, hath wounded him to death.”

“Nay—for the king fear not,” Nebaioth said;
“In my own house he resteth; and his wound
Is nought. His steeds and chariot ready wait

To bring him forth, when from his brain shall pass
The stupor of the wine-cup. But, great gods!
When, when shall pass away this night's disgrace!”

O'er the dead-sprinkled plain, as best they might,
Hasting, and talking thus,—they saw, at length,
With Salamenes, a great force of foot,
In slow retreat, yet fighting valiantly.
But, backward looking, they, with joy, beheld
Assyrian horsemen likewise, and no few,
Though all unordered, yet with aspect firm,
Advancing to their aid. Nebaioth then;
“Abide thou here the coming of the horse;
That to the onset in more fit array
Thou may'st conduct them. I, meantime, will speed
To Salamenes, and make known to him
What thou hast seen, and what the help at hand.”

“Wise are thy words,” said Jerimoth; “be it so.”
Speaking, he turned. Nebaioth onward flew;
And to the Assyrian foot advancing, cried,
“Now, now, ye valiant men—put forth your strength:
The field is not yet lost. Brave Jerimoth,
With numerous horse, draws nigh: the king yet lives,
And will come forth to victory. For your wives,
Your children, and your parents, and your homes,
Conquer, or nobly perish.”

Calling thus,
Still on he flew; till, in the thick of fight,
Armed with a sword and shield alone, he saw
The noble Salamenes; by his voice,
And valiant deeds, inciting to resist.
Approaching him, Nebaioth from his horse
Hastily leaped, and, with quick utterance, thus.
“The armouries are thrown open. As they 'scape,
The soldiers thence snatch arms, and hurry back.
The chariots, too, and horse, in multitudes,
Are hasting to the contest. Close at hand,
With many horse, even now is Jerimoth.
But, wherefore, in this conflict perilous,
Unmailed art thou? Great prince, be wise as brave.
Bethink thee, on thy fate Assyria's hangs;

With thee we live, or die. Mount, then, my steed;
Haste to the city, and thine arms put on.
In my own house the monarch resteth safe,
And little hurt; but still with soul and strength
Crushed by the wine-cup: and to thee alone
Must all now look for help. Away, away!”

Breathless with toil, the prince no word replied;
But grasped Nebaioth firmly by the arm;
Looked in his face with melancholy smile;
Sprang on the panting steed; and rapidly
Rode toward the nearest gate. Nebaioth then
Ardently bounded to the battle's front,
And roused the soldiers' courage. Jerimoth
Came also with his horsemen furiously,
Breaking the Median ranks, and scattering;
So that a moment balanced seemed the fight.

But nothing now might long the foe resist:
For, every instant, with terrific cries,
And confident of victory, came on
Fresh numbers; that the Assyrians, overborne,
Again, though bravely combating, retired.

Meantime, the Median chariots, and the horse,
Terribly thundering, toward the river drove
Myriads, and tens of myriads, with great noise
And carnage inexpressible. The steeds,
Amid the heaps of trampled, and of slain,
Stumbled continually: the chariot wheels,
As in deep roads, were clogged. With pity filled,
Then cried Arbaces; “Trumpeters blow out,
To cease from slaughter.” But, in that dire din,
The blaring trumpets were as infants' toys,
Blown in their sport: and, mad with victory,
For conquest yet athirst, reluctantly,
The soldiers ceased from slaying. On them still
Incessantly Arbaces called aloud,
To and fro riding: louder, and more loud,
Still blew the trumpets. When he could be heard,
And when both armies for a moment paused,—
Upstanding in his chariot, his strong voice
He sent abroad, and cried; “Cease now from fight:

And you, Assyrians, hear me, and fly not.
Why should ye perish all? Let every man
Who will the tyrant leave; and truly join,
For life or death, in our most holy cause,—
Pass now the bridge; and he shall be unharmed.
Let every Mede make room, that they may pass;
And let the men who hear me, in both hosts,
Proclaim aloud my words, that all may know.”

Then were the hearts of the Assyrians glad;
And cheerfully from man to man were sent
The tidings; and a loud acclaim ran on,
“Long live Arbaces! may the tyrant fall!”
While thus they cried, still toward the bridge they moved,
And every Mede made way. Arbaces, next,
To Azareel thus spake: “Abide thou now,
With all thy horse and chariots, in this place:
And, when the Assyrians shall have crossed the bridge,
See thou that none return. But, when I send
Spearmen, and archers, who shall guard the pass,
Then to the battle, with thy valiant men,
Hasten thou back; for, haply, even this night,
Into our hands the city may be given.”

Thus having spoken, in the van he rode,
And called aloud: “Now turn your horses' heads,
And drive into the camp; for, in our rear,
The foe will gather strength.” Throughout the host
Soon flew the word; and quickly all wheeled round.
But Azareel, with horse and chariots, stayed;
That, when the Assyrians should have passed the bridge,
No man might thence return.

So these. Meantime,
Through every gate that faced the northern plain,—
Like the full spring-tide up a river's mouth
Driving and roaring,—the Assyrians fled:
And, in a counter current, also thronged
From every gate, fast as they could be armed,
Horsemen, and charioteers, and foot, all hot
To plunge into the hurly of the fight.

Within the city was there uproar dire:

All voices were uplift, all feet astir.
Along the northern wall, to light the field,
And aid the fliers to escape, huge fires
Were kindled, and ten thousand torches waved.

Meantime, his noble heart with grief oppressed,
Across the plain, and through the crowded gate,
Flew Salamenes.

In Nebaioth's house,
Stretched on a bed, the helpless king he found;
And, close beside him, with a proffered cup,
Which, with his trembling hand, he still repelled,
Peresh, the good physician. Round the couch,
Rebekah, with her handmaids, stood and wept.

When Salamenes entered, thus the king,
With faint voice, but a kindling eye, began.
“Why art thou here? Is all lost utterly?
And hath the city then already fallen?”

To him the prince. “Thine enemies, O king,
Not yet within the city have set foot;
Nor is the battle lost. To thee I come,
To know if still thou can'st not issue forth,
And from destruction save it. For, thy helm,
Seen in the fight, would be a fiery star,
To lead the soldiers on.” To him the king:
“The accursëd poison of the grape-juice yet
Doth blind mine eyes, and stupify my brain:
As by a leaden load, my limbs are pressed;
And my heart's blood is cold. With thee alone
Would I have speech, and briefly, that again
Thou may'st go forth.”

Rebekah, at these words,
With Peresh, and the handmaidens, withdrew.
To Salamenes then thus said the king.
“The glory of this mighty Nineveh
Is passing like cloud-shadow. On her throne,
No child of mine shall sit. Her giant walls
Shall be cast down; her stately palaces,
Be heaps of blackened ashes: slaves her sons;
Her beauteous daughters shall be concubines!
In my brief dream, since on this couch I lay,

Thus hath it surely been revealed to me.
Never again can I her armies lead;
For shame sits heavy on my head, that thus,
In pride and foolishness, I have brought down
Destruction on us. In the hour of fight,
Mine arm hath not been feeble, nor my heart
Afraid: but, in the time of revelry,
Blind have mine eyes been; and my thoughts all vain!
But thou art not the slave of thy desires;
And all thy thoughts are wise: thou, rather, then,
Go forth; my armies lead; my people save!”

But Salamenes knelt beside the couch;
Pressed close the extended hand, and softly said;
“Let not the king too harshly blame himself;
Nor let his soul be utterly cast down.
From hard adversity men wisdom learn;
And he that hath his fault sincerely owned,
Hath half redeemed it, too. The weight, O king,
Will from thy limbs be taken; and thy heart
With a new life will glow: and thou wilt yet
Go forth unto thine hosts, and lead them on;
And, at thy presence, will the battle turn.
Rise then, O monarch of Assyria, rise;
Put on thine arms—go forth—thy people save!
But, ere too late, arise: for, now, indeed,
With aspect black and terrible lowers Fate!”

Sardanapalus, at these words, arose,
And upright sat. Death-pale his countenance was;
Trembled his limbs; his eyes were wild and bright.
He spake not yet; but pointed toward the camp,
And listened; for terrific was the din.
At length thus hoarsely,—“Hence; put on thy mail,
And speed unto the plain. I too, anon,
Will arm, and issue.”

Joyful at that word,
Then Salamenes kissed the monarch's hand,
Arose, and went his way. To Peresh, next,
Thus said the king; “Now give me of thy cup,
That strength may come to me. That done, retire;

For I would be alone.” So he, and drank:
Then lay him down; and fain would have reposed.
But, with a heavy grief his soul was crushed,
And sleep fled from him. On the prophet's words
He thought, and said; “the banquet hath indeed,
To me more fearful than the battle been!
Oh that I had but listened to his voice!
Then had I 'scaped this misery! Fool! oh fool!”

Meantime, his armour Salamenes donned;
Sprang on his horse, and hurried toward the field.

Passing an armoury, whence came soldiers forth,
Equipped for combat,—he the queen beheld,
Within her car, nigh the great central gate;
And, as the soldiers hasted by, she called
Continually, and said; “Be strong; fear not;
Fight for your agëd parents, and your wives,
Your sisters, and your children, and your homes!
Turn not your backs on this rebellious horde!
Let not your sons be taken for their slaves;
Let not your beauteous daughters, and your wives,
Become their servants, and their concubines!
Die rather, nobly die! Call on the gods,
Call on the gods in battle; and your arms
Shall have the strength of giants! Valiant men,
On to the fight! Let not your foes rejoice
In this their cunning: let not your great city,
This mighty Nineveh, the queen of earth,
Be made the den of rebels, or wild beasts!”

With words like these, incessantly she cried
Unto the soldiers; and their hearts made strong.

When Salamenes this beheld, and heard,
More nigh he drew; stretched out his hand, and said;
“My sister! my dear sister!” She to him,
“Brother! my dearest brother! But, alas!
Why art thou not in battle? And oh! where,
In this dread hour, is he?”

She faltered; wrung
Convulsively her hands; and on her face
Pressed them, as if on her his shame had fallen.

Then Salamenes; “Wounded, and borne down

By sore distemperature, the king, as yet,
Refrains from combat; but, in little while,
Will rise, and arm for fight. Yet, seek not thou
To stir him; for thy voice will be as wine
To strengthen every man that heareth thee.
Not utterly is yet the battle lost.
Our foot, and horse, and chariots, toward the plain
Are crowding fast; and thither now haste I.”

Then to the soldiers, as they hurried forth
From out the armoury, he called aloud:
“Let every man that fighteth upon foot,
Speed toward the Well of Giants,—there the foe
His foot hath also: but let every horse,
And every chariot, toward the river fly;
For there the horse and chariots of the Mede
Rage unresisted. Now, let every man
That these things heareth, cry them out aloud,
That all may know. And thou, my sister, send
To every gate, within the northern wall,
And every armoury, to make them known.”

Thus having spoken, he threw up the rein,
And toward the field rode forth. Him, as he passed,
All knew; and called down blessings on his head.

In the great square of Jupiter, there stood,
Around the giant statue of the god,
Altars, and many priests who sacrificed,
And called upon his name. Their heads were bare,
Their faces pale, and withered up with fear.
A moment Salamenes paused, and cried,
“Ye holy men, what tokens?” Nought they spake;
But lifted up the hand, and shook the head.

On then he rode; and, having passed the gate,
Nigh to the wall a numerous throng beheld,—
Chariots, and horse, and foot: but strange dismay
Upon them, that they knew not what to do.
Him soon they saw, and shouted out his name;
And he, with cheerful voice, to animate
And order them began; when, at full speed,
Came riders, with wild looks, who cried aloud;
“The chariots and the horsemen of the Medes

Have in the river driven our myriads;
And now are this way hasting; trampling down,
And slaying all before them.”

With strong voice,
Then Salamenes cried, “Fear not, fear not!
But hear my words; and look that all obey.
Let every charioteer and horseman, now,
Skirting the wall, straight toward the river speed;
And on the rear of the audacious foe,
Break like a thunder-bolt. But, full in front,
Let all the archers and the slingers go
To meet them; and drive on them deadly hail.
Now, let all men who hear me, cry aloud,
Proclaiming to the rest.”

When this was heard,
And by a thousand voices spread abroad,—
The horse and chariots toward the river sped;
The archers, and the slingers, with strong hearts,
Went forward on the foe. Then yet again
Cried Salamenes, “Let the spearmen, now,
And those who fight with sword, or battle-axe,
Haste toward the Well of Giants: rageth there
Fierce conflict; yet, let every man be bold,
And stand unto the death. Here will I stay,
And unto all send help.” With cheerful voice,
The soldiers answered, and went swiftly on:
But, by the gate of Nisroch he remained;
And, as the chariots, and the horse, and foot,
Came forth, he ordered and encouraged them:
And captains to the other gates he sent,
Who in same way should stand, and give command.

Still, everywhere, before the exulting Medes,
Weak was the Assyrian's arm. Like men from sleep
Roused suddenly, their senses were confused;
Their strength was wasted by long revelry.
Nebaioth, with the foot; and Jerimoth,
With all his fiery horsemen, rapidly
Backward were driven; for, in a mighty stream,
The Median and the Bactrian foot poured on,
Flooding the camp. And, when the Assyrians saw

That, with the Medes, the Bactrians had conjoined,—
More sank their hearts; and they cried fearfully;
“We are betrayed! Fly to the city, fly!
The Bactrians with the Medes are 'gainst us come!
Men of Assyria, to your city fly!
Fly to the city, and shut fast the gates!”

Thus crying, thousands turned their backs, and fled.
And, of the horsemen also, many turned,
And toward the city flew,—crying aloud,
“The Bactrians with the Medes are 'gainst us come!
Fly to the city, men of Nineveh,
And shut the gates! we are betrayed! fly, fly!”

When Salamenes,—standing nigh the gate
Of Nisroch yet,—this outcry heard, his heart
Sorely was troubled. Flinging up his arms,
He looked to heaven, and said. “All ruling gods,
Our fate is in your hands! This night, perchance,
Your doom is that we perish! Yet despair
Is impious; for your counsels who can know?
Who then shall dare forestall them? Hear me, gods!
If past forgiveness we have angered you,
Then must we fall; and prayers, and tears, are vain.
If but to punish, not destroy, ye stretch
The arm of wrath—in mercy stay it now;
For great our misery is!” Dropped then his hands;
His head sank down, and he groaned bitterly.
But, strength and heart recovering soon, again
Erect he stood, and resolutely thus.
“Yet, come what may, man in his own hand holds
Honor, or infamy. To live, or die,
He may not choose; but, life with infamy,
Or death with honor, in his choice remains,
And who can waver? Come ten thousand deaths,
Rather than ages of ignoble life!”
He said, and, flinging to his horse the rein,
Vehémently into the battle rode,
Plunging, as in a torrent.

But, meantime,
Among the Assyrian foot, the Median cars
And horse drove irresistibly,—like wolves

Amid the sheep, rending and scattering them.
Nor, when the archers, and the slingers came,
Could they before the shock a moment stand:
For, in the van of fight Arbaces rode;
And terrible as Death his aspect was.
Ahab, not less, and Abdolonimus,
And every Median captain, furiously
Drove on them: and Belesis still cried out,
Foretelling victory, and the city's fall.

Among the Assyrian force, there stood a man
Of Astaroth, named Anak: for his size,
And strength prodigious, o'er a thousand spears,
The captain chosen. But, the mighty bulk,
A little heart contained. Above all men,
Did he Belesis hate; for that the first
Was he, against the king to counsel war.
When, now, the chariot of the priest he saw
Nigh toward him coming, frenzy filled his soul:
His spear he hurled; next, from a fire plucked forth
A huge brand, fiercely blazing, and, on high
Lifting it, aimed and threw. With sullen roar,
And trailing smoke and flame, it cleft the air;
Full in the faces of the horses struck,—
Scorching their eyes; staggering, bewildering them;
That they ran backward; suddenly wheeled round,
And, with harsh jar, the chariot overthrew.

Rejoiced the Assyrians then; and every man,
Example taking, from the fires snatched brands,
And hurled them 'mid the enemy; that, now,
Terror and great confusion covered them.
The steeds drew back,—sprang upright,—leaped aside,—
Struggled, and shrieked: cars were together jammed,—
Axles snapped short,—poles broken,—wheels torn off;
And tumult inconceivable arose.

Then more and more the Assyrians were rejoiced:
Arrows, and stones, darts, lances, in thick shower,
They poured among their foes; and ceaselessly
Hurled flaming brands; with bitter mockery,
Laughing to scorn their enemies sore perplexed.

But now the soldiers, on both sides, plucked brands,

And flung them at their enemies. Anon,
Tent after tent caught fire, and streamed aloft;
The clouds grew red before the sudden flame;
The air was hot, and smoky, like the breath
Of furnace; and the roar was terrible.

As when, at night, on ocean long becalmed,
That, 'neath the downright burning of the sun,
Hath gendered shining creatures numberless,
And sleeping fires phosphoric,—a strong wind
Awakes, and lifts the waters,—near, and far,
On every curling wave the flashes ride;
With every roll, and every back recoil,
Shaking their sparkling lamps, that all the deep
Seems kindling into flame,—so vast, so bright;
So tossing restlessly its fires about;
So in continuous motion, to and fro,
Rising, and falling, seemed the battle-plain.

But, not long time could the Assyrians boast
Their chance-given triumph; for the horse, anon,
Of their strong enemy, with doubled rage
Burst in among them: and the chariots, too,
Fast as they freed themselves, came thundering on.
All frantic were the coursers; for the fires,
Before, behind, around, flared fearfully:
Yet, furiously the drivers shouted, smote,
And 'mid the throng impelled them,—that, as mire,
The mass was trampled. Hideous shrieks arose,
Howlings and cries: and, as the scattered fires
And blazing tents went out, a darkness fell
O'er all the field, that dimly every man
Beheld his enemy.

Belesis now,
Who from his fall unharmed had 'scaped, and rode
With Necho, the Arabian, in his car—
Seeing the darkness gather, and the force
Of the Assyrians in confusion dire,—
Toward the bright city pointing, cried aloud,
“Behold! upon his wall, the enemy
Hath kindled fires, to guide you on your way!
Drive on, then, to the gates! linger not here

To slay these miserable! To the gates,
Speed cars, horse, foot; for, haply, even this night,
Into our hands may God the city give!”

Arbaces also, with a mighty voice,
Cried, “Smite your horses now, and force the way!
On to the gates! the gates! This night, perchance,
The city shall be ours.” As they cried out,
So every captain, every soldier cried:
And, like some mighty current of the main,
Changing its course, gulf-drawn, or turned by rocks,
The Median host 'gan wheel,—when, suddenly,
On their right hand, and in their rear, arose
Sound of new onset: for the Assyrian horse
And chariots that had toward the river gone,
Exultingly drove on them. In the gloom,
Not well they saw their foe; nor them the Medes
Aright could see,—their numbers and their strength
To tell: but furiously together rushed
The opposing hosts; and dreadful uproar rose,
And tumult inexpressible.

But now,
When those who from the wall o'erlooked the plain,
Beheld the fires put out,—then also they
Their fires extinguished; for they said, “Behold,
Our soldiers hope in darkness to escape!”

So in a thick obscure both armies stood,
Mingled together; and no man might know
Which way to move; and no man dared to strike,
Or speak; for, whether enemy, or friend,
Beside him stood, he knew not. Gory War,
As struck by sudden apoplexy, slept.
No sound was, save the blowing of the steeds,
The restless foot, and champing on the bit;
The clash of armour, as dropped momently,
Some wounded warrior; and, of all that host,
The thick laborious pantings; the dull creak
And grind of iron wheels together locked;
The groan of pain, the long, deep gasp of death.

BOOK THE SIXTEENTH.

But, in a little while, as passed the smoke,
And to the gloom the eye grew reconciled,—
Slowly did War from his deep torpor wake:
And, when the Medes, near the yet smouldering mounds,
Huge piles of fuel saw,—with eager haste
They 'gan rekindle them: but this withstood
The enemy; and, forthwith, round every fire,
Quickly the contest thickened. So fared these.

Meantime, the Assyrians, who had crossed the bridge,
Stood on the farther bank, and cast their eyes
On that strange conflict. In the hearts of some,
Was joy for their escape. They looked to see
The downfall of Assyria's tyranny;
Expecting, with the morrow's light, to stand
Enrolled among her conquerors. But no few
Were natives of the city: they their eyes
Turned on it mournfully; and on their homes,
Their wives, their parents, and their children thought.

Of these was Tartan,—o'er the royal guard
Chief captain. Of the royal blood was he;
Faithful, and noble, brave, and well beloved.
But three days was he wedded; beautiful
His gentle spouse; and in his inmost soul
Did he adore her. By the press borne on,
He had crossed the bridge; but, while the cry arose,
“Long live the Medes! may the proud city fall!,”—
His voice had lifted, and the boon refused,

By treason to be bought. Yet, urged along
By that dense tide of men, no power had he
The life to offer, which he scorned to hold,
So purchased,—in his own despite thus safe.
On the great city casting now his eyes,
Tearful and dim, “No! no!” he said; “come death,
And blessëd come, far rather than stained life!
'Gainst thee, thou glorious city of my birth,
Never can I the ingrate sword uplift!
Be this arm withered, rather than enact
The foul, unnatural deed! No terms have I
Accepted of the rebel; for, by force
Was I driven hither; and with honor, then,
May strive against him. And oh! where art thou,
My best belovëd, in this dreadful hour?
How is thy gentle soul made desolate!”

Thus thinking, by the river's bank he stood;
Now toward the city, now the battle, looked:
But, when he saw the fires extinguished all,
And that a silence suddenly had fallen,—
Within himself he said, “The contest now
Surely is ended; and, until the dawn,
There will be rest. If but this numerous throng,
Here standing idle gazers, could be armed,
And led again into the field,—even still
Might we have hope of victory.” Toward the bridge,
Where yet was gleam of torchlight—by the Mede
So ordered—next he looked, and inly said;
“Surely they cannot at this distance see;
For night is thick about me.” Then he stripped
His gorgeous festive mantle: to the gods
A silent prayer put up; a blessing called
On his loved wife; and in the deep stream plunged.

In darkness he the swift and turbulent wave
Did buffet: but his youthful limbs were strong,
His heart resolved: the river he crossed o'er;
And safe, though breathless, stood upon the bank.

Then from its moorings he a boat unloosed;
Leaped in it; seized the oars; and rapidly,
Again the river crossed. Unto the bank

As he drew nigh, his plashing strokes were heard;
And numbers toward the boat went eagerly.

Leaping on land, before the crowd he stood;
His arms uplift, attention to invite;
And, with low tone, thus spake. “In this obscure,
Few see;—perchance none know me. Yet 'tis fit
Ye learn with what authority I speak.
Prince Tartan, captain of the Royal Guard,
Is he who now commands you. Silent stand;
And mark me heedfully; then, 'mid the throng
Go some of you; and unto all make known
The thing that must be done. Boats numerous lie
Beside the farther bank. Let, then, each man
Who crosses, one of those unloose,—return,—
And a full load take back; till every boat
Shall ply the stream, and every soldier 'scape.
But cautious be; and whisper, if ye speak.
And let none strive for precedence; but still,
The nearest, first embark. One hot, loud word
Might bring the foe upon you, and quick death.
Landed,—straight toward the royal armoury
At once make speed; arm,—and in order wait
Till I shall come to you.”

That said, again
Into the boat he sprang; and, after him,
Those nearest,—till he signed, no room for more;
And thrust it from the bank.

Arrived, in haste,
As they had been commanded, every man
A boat unloosed; recrossed; and, with full load,
Unto the city side returned anew.

Some to the gates advanced, and called aloud
Upon the watchers. Then the portals wide
Were opened; and the fliers went within.
Thus all the boats were loosened: through the night,
Went to and fro; and every man escaped.

Nor, by the Median guard beyond the bridge,
Aught was this noted; so were eye, ear, thought,
To the dread battle chained immovably.

But, not by all were these things unobserved.

Rabsaris, when the city he had left,
At great speed onward drove: till, having reached
The house of one in whom he might place trust,—
And shades of night now falling rapidly—
He lighted from the chariot; on the door
Struck hurriedly: and, when the man came forth,
Besought him that, till break of day, he there
Might, with his daughter, tarry.

Cheerfully,
Was he made welcome. He took then the steeds
From out the car, and to the stable led:
With water sparingly, with corn upheaped,
Their wants supplied; then to the house returned;
Took food, and wine; and lay him down to sleep.

But slumber came not: he arose, erelong,
Restless, and anxious; and, forth looking, saw
The far-off city, and the spacious camp,
Starred with its countless fires. While yet he looked,
Lo! a great sound arose, shrill cries of fear,
And trumpets harshly screaming. In amaze
He listened; and, again, o'er all the din,
A wild cry heard, as of a perishing host.

Now more and more he marvelled, and thus said;
“What may this token? Hath the scattered Mede
Gathered again his strength? or new revolt
Outbroken? Or the Bactrian, hath he turned
His arm against the city?” Then he went,
And called his daughter to him, and their host;
And bade them also to look forth, and say
What this might mean. But nothing could they judge,
And greatly were bewildered; for the din
Yet louder waxed; and, soon, they might descry
Chariots careering, and the flash of arms.
Rabsaris to his host now turned, and said;
“Come thou with me. Let us ascend the car,
And toward the city quickly take our way,
That we may see; for surely some great thing
Hath come to pass.” So they girt on them swords;
Brought forth the car, and horses; and, straightway,
Toward the bridge hastened.

But Azubah rose,
And from the house-top looked forth anxiously
Toward camp and city. Fearful for the king,
Then in her heart she said: “If evil now
Be coming on him, never will I fly;
But on the morrow will return to him:
And that which for my father I have done,
He will forgive; and I to him may be
A comforter, when he hath none beside.”

Meantime, Rabsaris, speeding toward the bridge,
While yet far distant, saw, or thought he saw,
Thereon the flare of torches; and, beyond,
A glimmer, as of arms. What this might be,
He marvelled, yet went on; though slower now,
And with more heedful look. South of the bridge,
Along the river's bank, at length, he saw
What seemed a crowd of men: but silent all;
Or, in the uproar of the distant fight,
Unheard. The rein then suddenly he drew,
And looked again, and listened. A low hum
Of voices seemed to rise; and more and more
Was he confounded. But, in whisper now,
Trembling in every limb, his host thus spake:
“Let us turn back, or mischief may befall;
For, if they see us, verily we die.”
Yet nought Rabsaris feared, and thus replied:
“Abide thou in the car: if any man
Against thee come,—ply scourge, and save thyself:
But, if no evil threaten thee, remain
Till I return; for surely to the men
Will I draw near, and hearken.”

Having said,
He from the chariot stepped; and cautiously
Went onward toward the throng. When nigh them come,
He saw that all the people were unarmed,
And some great sadness on them. Then he walked
Boldly among them; and, to all he heard,
Anxiously listened; yet himself spake not,
Lest any man should know him.

When he, now,
Had gathered from their talk what things had chanced:
And when he had the multitude espied
Escaping by the boats,—he hasted back
Unto the car, and to his host thus said:
“The Medes and Bactrians, with a mighty strength,
Fell on the Assyrians, feasting, and unarmed;
And are o'erwhelming utterly. Those men
Who crowd the river's bank,—on promise given
That they the tyrant would no longer serve,
But to the Medes vow fealty,—from death
Were spared, and sent unharmed across the bridge:
Yet, faithlessly, into the city now,
By thousands, are they stealing. Drive thou, then,
Across the bridge,—for there the Median horse
And chariots watch—and tell it them aloud.
No man of these will see thee. I, meantime,
Will pass the river with the multitude,
And to the city speed; that I may know
Where most its weakness is; for, even this night,
Perchance it will be ours. Haste, then: fear nought.
Nor for my safety fear; for, in the gloom,
And in this robe attired, by not a man
Shall I be known.” Thus saying, and reply
Awaiting not, with dauntless air he went,
And mingled in the press: the river crossed;
Passed through the gate; and hurriedly sped on.

But, when the man whom he had counselled thus,
A little distance toward the bridge had gone,—
He checked the steeds, and to himself thus said:
“Now, wherefore in this danger should I go?
I am a man of peace, and love not strife:
I, also, of much substance am possessed;
Have sons, and daughters; and yet many years
May hope to live: but, in this dangerous thing
If I do meddle, I may be cut off;
And in a moment lose, what all my life,
From morn till night, I labored to obtain.
Gladly would I the haughty one behold
In her pride humbled; but, is not the breath

Within my nostrils, of more worth to me
Than weal, or woe, of all the earth beside?
And wherefore, then, should I this peril brave?
Even let the hosts contend. To whom He will,
God can the victory give; and needeth not
My serving. Safely, then, will I look on;
But meddle not, where I can nothing gain.”

So he; undreaming that his cowardice,
From the death-stroke would save Assyria's king.

Then round he wheeled the horses, that for flight
He might be ready; drew the reins; stood up;
And, backward looking, toward the river, now,
Now, toward the roaring plain, gazed fearfully.

Rabsaris, meantime, in the city roamed,
Boldly, and swiftly. Everywhere he heard
Sounds of great terror: all the streets were thronged,
With frenzied multitudes: gray-headed men;
And tottering children, by their mothers led;
Young boys, and agëd women; trembling girls;
Pale virgins, bright and beautiful as morn,
And delicate as bud of tenderest flower,—
All in this night of terror were abroad.

With rapid step still hurried he along,
All things observing; but the lightning's speed
Longed to command; that, in one point of time,
He everywhere might be. Close by, at length,
A mailed steed he beheld; and, tending him,
A groom, who for the rider waiting stood.
Forward then sprang he; seized upon the rein;
And, when the man resisted, and cried out,—
With strong arm flung him headlong to the ground;
Leaped on the horse; and rode off furiously:—
Yet, as he went, still warily marked all;
And no man questioned him.

But now, at length
Before Nebaioth's gateway, he beheld
The flaming chariot, and the milk-white steeds,
Of the Assyrian monarch; and, around,
A throng of horsemen, in bright panoply,

Who seemed awaiting him: and, by the talk
Among the people who stood watching them,
He learned that on the king had suddenly come
A grievous sickness; yet that resolute
Was he to rise anon, and lead the fight.

Then sped he swiftly; through the crowded gate
Of Ninus forced at length his difficult way;
Flung up the rein, and, at his utmost speed,
Along the battle-field the horse impelled.

Meantime, among the Assyrians was there rout,
Fearful, and deadly. Also of the Medes
Perished no few; for, in confusion dire
The hosts were mingled; and, on neither side,
Could voice of leader be at distance heard.
The fires, too, that had newly kindled been,
Again burned low, and over all the field
A dark red radiance cast.

Near toward its noon
Was now the night. Arbaces looked around
On the entangled mass, and thus aloud:
“Oh that, before the glorious Light-god comes,
Our banners on the haughty wall might wave!
Could all the host at once, both see, and hear,
And follow in one body to the gates,—
Surely the city in our hands would fall!
But, in this burning gloom, few eyes can see
Where I would lead them; in this uproar wild,
Few ears can hear me. Mighty god of war!
Send us a flood of lightnings, as a torch
To lead us to the gates! and give my voice
To speak with more than thunder; that all ears
At once may hear me.”

Ceasing, he moved on
Toward where, with cavalry, and numerous cars,
Fought Ahab,—him against the gates to urge.
But, when short distance he had gone, behold!
Before him the pavilion of the king,—
Like to a purple cloud appearing, first,
But, soon, aright discerned,—and, on its floor,

Furiously warring, an Assyrian force,
With arrow, sword, spear, dart, and battle-axe,
Against the Bactrian foot defending it.

This when Arbaces saw, he cried aloud,
“Bring hither fire! Strike in the red-hot brands
Your spear-points: bear them boldly, and fling up;
And we will turn this lurid to great light.
Fire, fire, bring fire!” So crying, from his car
At once he leaped; and, with his huge lance poised,
Went forward, running swiftly.

On the floor
Of the pavilion, the gigantic form
Of Anak stood, nigh to the royal stairs;
And, with a monstrous mace, brass-headed, smote
All who to climb them strove. His lips with foam
Were covered, and his eyes shot living flame.
But, toward himself, when, with death-threatening spear,
He saw Arbaces bent,—his whole huge strength
Up-gathering,—'gainst him, as from catapult shot,
He launched the ponderous mace;—with head out-stretched,
And starting eye-balls, watched its flight, and fall;
Then, fear-struck, turned, and fled.

Straight to its mark,
Rapidly whirling, booming through the air,
Held onward the grim Mischief. Its sure aim
Arbaces noted; lightly stepped aside,
And the full crush escaped: yet 'scaped not all;
For, on his buckler's rim, with such dire clang,
Came down the whirling brass, that, jarred to the bone,
His strong arm dropped. Nor ended there its rage:
Rebounding from the earth,—so forcefully
A youth beloved and honored by the Mede
It smote, that, as by lightning, he fell dead.

Arbaces saw, and dreadful was his wrath.
Vengeance resolving,—up the cedar stairs,
At a bound he sprang; and through the terrified throng,
O'erthrowing all that stood within his way,
Pursued the coward foe. Then Anak saw
That flight was vain; and, turning, drew his blade,

Crying aloud, “Upon him every man!
He is Arbaces, the arch-rebel. Smite!
Cut him to pieces! give his flesh to dogs!”

Like hounds upon the lion, at these words,
'Gainst him the Assyrians turned. Them heeding not,
Arbaces drew his sword; on Anak flew,
And, as with thunderbolt, smote him. Crashed the mail;
Out burst the life-stream; and, like tree hewn down,
The whole mass fell together. On all sides,
As in same point of time, flashed then his blade;
His shield dashed numbers down: his voice, and look,
Stiffened the arms that were uplift to strike.
All shrank before him, and unharmed he passed.

But, when again upon the ground he stood,
He from a soldier took a red-hot brand,
Borne on a spear; and close beside the planks
Thrust, and there held it. When this thing they saw,
Again the Assyrians hotly on him flew,—
Spears and darts hurling. Some, yet madder, leaped
Down the stairs headlong; and, with sword and axe,
Began more close assault. But, with his shield
Before him held, he stood, and called for fire:
And, as the soldiers brought, and cast it down,
He with the spear still thrust it to the planks:
And, when to snatch it thence a foe drew nigh,
Forward he sprang, and slew, or wounded him.
Of Bactrians, many to assist him came;
But, of Assyrians, to oppose, far more:
So that the strife and tumult now waxed great;
And the hot brands were scattered, and burned not.

But, in a fire at hand, one blazing log,
A burthen for a man of common strength,
Arbaces saw; and, by the unscorched end,
Grasping it, called aloud to clear the way:
Then, with full swing of his herculean arm,
'Gainst the pavilion cast it. Roaring up,
Like to a meteor streaming,—it burst through;
Among the startled thousands flaming fell;
And, in few moments, silken roof, and sides,
One sheet of fire became; that, for brief time,

Flooded the camp with splendor. Headlong down
The scared Assyrians hasted. To his car
Ascending then, Arbaces raised his voice:
“Now toward the gates at once—horse, chariots, foot!
The city shall be ours. Cry out aloud,
That all may hear it, ‘to the gates! the gates!’”

Then did the horsemen and the charioteers,
Send forth their voices, and urge on their steeds:
Throughout the Median, and the Bactrian force,
The cry was echoed, “to the gates! the gates!”
And a great rush began.

But bravely yet,
Foot, horse, and cars, the Assyrians fronted them.

Rabsaris, when short distance on the plain
He had advanced,—before him, to the right,
The Median cars beheld; and, towering high
Above them all, Arbaces. Him to meet,
Swiftly then rode he; and, when nigh at hand,
Cried out, “I am Rabsaris. Hearken now,
Arbaces; and the city shall be thine.”

In wonder, on that haggard face, awhile,
Arbaces gazed, and spake not: but, at length:
“In that gay robe attired, I knew thee not.
Come up into the car.” With loud voice then,
Unto the charioteers who near him rode,
“Hold hard your steeds,” he cried: “till word be given,
Stir not a man.”

Rabsaris eagerly
Leaped to the ground, and in the chariot sprang.

Freed from his rider, the loud-neighing horse
Tossed his proud head, and shook his curling mane,—
Wildly looked here, and there—and bounded on.

Then to the Mede in haste Rabsaris thus;
“'Scaped from the dungeon,—needs not to tell how,—
Straight from the city come I—Mark me then.
The tyrant will to battle. I beheld,
Close to Nebaioth's gate, his steeds and car
Awaiting him;—for, with the fumes of wine,
Sore drunken hath he been; but gathers strength.
If, then, with horse, or chariots, through the gate

Of Nisroch thou wilt haste; and also send
Chariots, or horsemen, through the gate of Palms,
That they may go about, and bar escape,—
Betwixt you he must fall. But, come what may,
Return will easy be; for uproar wild
Is over all the city; and no man
Knows what to do, or what to leave undone.”

Arbaces listened, and thus, doubtfully;
“We thought thee dead, Rabsaris; and, in truth,—
So dire the ruin by thy madness wrought,—
Scarce pitied thee. Ill Fortune dogs thee close!
How know we if, again with thee colleagued,
The inexorable Fate, pursuing thee,
May not again crush us?”

“Be merciful!”
Exclaimed Rabsaris,—“madness was it all!
Stark madness! But mine eyes again are clear;
My Reason is in sunlight. Trust me then.”

For answer, on his charioteers, the Mede
Cried joyfully; “To Abdolonimus
Haste, some of you; and bid him quickly here,
With five score chariots only. Even but now,
I passed him in the rear, and called him on.
Haply he heard me not.”

At once went forth
Two chariots from the group; but all the rest,
Even as they stood, remained: and they who heard,
Wondered, and knew not what might be to come.

Not long they marvelled; for, the Arabian king
Arriving soon, to him with loud voice cried
The Mede, that all might hear; “Haste thou away;
And through the gate of Palms at swiftest drive,
Straight toward the fountain of Semiramis.
North of the square, before Nebaioth's house,
The chariot of the king thou wilt behold,
Waiting to bring him forth. But if, perchance,
He should be gone,—then onward to the square
Of Jupiter drive rapidly; and, thence,
Right toward the gate of Nisroch. Like thyself,
With five score chariots only, I, meantime,—

The gate of Nisroch entering,—toward the square
Of Jupiter will speed; and onward, thence,
Straight toward the fountain of Semiramis.
Betwixt us thus the king shall surely fall.
Now get thee gone; and drive on steadily.
And let no voice be lifted, lest the words
Betray you. I, awhile, will here abide,—
For mine the shorter course,—that both at once
May fall together on the astonished king;
And slay perchance, or capture.”

“Though ye fail,”
Cried out Rabsaris, “your return is safe.
The city, wheresoever I have been,
Was filled with women only, aged men,
And children; and with those that bear not arms.”

Nodding for answer, Abdolonimus
Called to his charioteers; and they flew on.

Next, to Rabsaris spake the Median king:
“For thee, my friend, befits not, mailed in silk,
That on this perilous errand thou should'st go.
Mount then some car; that to the battle's rear
Thou may'st be borne; and safely there abide,
Till morning rise; or till the strife be done.”

Angrily came the answer. “Never! no!
Thou dost me wrong, Arbaces. What foul act
Hath stained my name, that, like a frighted girl” . . .

There stopped he; for a chariot, rapidly
Right toward them driving, came. The charioteer,
Standing, and leaning backward, with both hands
Drew at the reins. Nigh to the Median car,
The steeds at length were stayed; and heavily
The warrior fell to earth. Arbaces knew;
And to assist him hastened: but the hand
Of death had touched him: open stood his eyes,
Glaring, and meaningless; his jaw had dropped.
A moment on him looked the Mede; sighed deep;
Then to Rabsaris thus. “The chance of war
Comes to decide our difference. Malachi
Hath fallen; and his vacant chariot now
May bear thee to the city. Speed thee then;

Take thou his armour, helmet, sword, and shield;
And gird thee for the combat.”

Instantly
Upstarting, from the car Rabsaris leaped:
In the bright mail, rejoicing, clad himself;
Girt on his thigh the sword; upon his head
The helmet fixed; braced on his arm the shield;
And in the chariot sprang. Arbaces then
Stood upright, looked around him, and cried out:
“Now toward the Nisroch gate: but silently:
And, as ye see me do, so do ye all.”

That said, he sat; and soon, in ordered line,
Car following car, at slow pace all went on.

No enemy opposed; since, to their left,
The battle chiefly raged; and distant view
Was none: for now again the light grew dim;
The blaze of the pavilion had sunk down;
And a red gloom once more was o'er the field.
So, gently, and in silence, they moved on.

But, nigh the gate when now Arbaces drew,
And saw armed soldiers issuing; and that hope
Of quiet entrance could be none,—at once
Upstood he; looked behind him; and cried out:
“Now, now, lash on your horses, and burst through.”

In the same moment every scourge was raised;
And every horse-foot spurned the trembling ground;
And, with a rush as of a mighty wind,
Right toward the gate they flew.

Their coming on,
The enemy saw: some lifted spear, or dart,
Intent to oppose; but most, with breathless haste,
Turned back, and fled. Like a swift mountain stream
O'erflooded, bursting through a narrow chasm;
With fury uncontrollable, and noise,
Making the rocks to tremble;—through the gate,
So irresistibly Arbaces burst.

Twice twenty cars alone the portal cleared;
For, pierced to the heart, a courser dropped down dead:
Down with him dropped his fellow, struggling hard:
The chariot, sharply checked, with loud clash fell;

And blocked the way; that, with a sudden shock,
Car against car throughout the line was driven:
All were stopped short; and great confusion rose.

Arbaces saw not, heard not,—such the roar
Of leaping wheels, the iron clang of hoofs,—
And, with but two score chariots, onward flew.

The square of Jupiter he passed, where still,
Praying and sacrificing, stood the priests:
Before the ancient, dark, gigantic pile
Of Ninus shot; and, soon, the fountain reached,
Named of Semiramis. While distant still,
Horsemen and cars, before Nebaioth's gate
Awaiting, he beheld; and a great flare
Of numerous torches: but his eagle eye
Told him the royal car was empty yet.
Upstanding then, and looking back, his arm
He lifted, and cried “Hold! hold hard your steeds!”

Quickly the cars were stayed. Arbaces then,
Alighting, backward walked; and, taking place
Where best throughout the line he might be heard,
With slow, clear utterance spake. “Too soon we come;
The tyrant is not there. But, mark me now.
If, as I hope, he shall at once be slain,—
No needless conflict would I with the rest;
But wheel round instantly, and backward speed,
Our missing friends to join: then, with them haste,
The Arabian king to meet: for all our strength
Tasked may be now, through any northern gate
A pass to force. Meantime, in silence wait:
And, when we come upon them, 'gainst the king,
Him only, hurl your spears.”

That said, he turned:
Again into his car sprang eagerly;
And, on the royal chariot, his keen eye,
Like steadfast lightning, fixed. So long he watched,
That the loud-panting, restless steeds, at length,
Drawing calm breath, stood still: but yet the car
Empty remained: and, from the battle-plain,—
As from a storm-lashed ocean, 'gainst the cliffs
Angrily thundering,—when, with louder din,
Borne on the breeze, the horrible uproar came,

Impatient grew he; and with anxious thoughts
Sore troubled. “All the night through might we watch
Unflaggingly; yet miss at last our prey;
While, meantime, the grand crowning victory-stroke
Might have been stricken.”

To Prince Geber then,
At last thus spake he. “Safely till the morn
Here might we bide; for they who hurry by
Regard us not; and yonder cars and horse,
All looking for the king, behold us not:
But even one hour from this great battle lost,
May be as loss of kingdoms. On his bed,
Doubtless the drunkard lies, and cannot stir.
No longer then—Ha! look! he comes! he comes!
The lightning helm betrays him! Onward now—
Yet gently, till within short arrow-flight
We shall have neared them.”

Geber heard; the steeds
Touched lightly; and the chariots all moved on.
Due distance gained, “Away!” cried out the Mede;
“Heed not their numbers; but like thunderbolt
Break in upon them!” At those stirring words,
Geber flung up the reins; raised high the scourge,
And smote the coursers; right against the horse
That girt the chariot driving.

Pale, yet wroth,
The monarch, at that instant, to his car,
Giddy and faint, was climbing; his hot steeds
Impatient to be gone. With ears erect,
They, first, the sound of coming wheels had caught;
And, as it neared them, from the toiling grooms,
Snorting, and rearing, struggled to get free.
The king, yet mounting, caught the sound, and paused,
Anxiously listening: to himself then said:
“Who from the battle comes so furiously?
Can all be lost?—Or be the tidings good?”

Even in that moment, urged to hottest speed,
The chariot of Arbaces, 'gainst the horse
Round the king's chariot, drove. Astonished, they
Sprang, as they might, aside. Free space thus left,

Right toward the royal car flew on the Mede;
And, passing, hurled his lance. The marvelling king,
Just seated, like the rush of vulture's wing,
Close to his ear its sullen whirring heard;
But the foe knew not: for, like flash of light,
The chariot passed him. With sharp hiss flew next,
As he shot by, the spear of Azareel:
Touched on the monarch's shoulder—wounding not:
And, the next moment, driven with madman's rage,
The lance of stern Rabsaris, on his helm
Glanced, and held onward. But that sight, and sound,
The horses of the king no more would bide:
From the scared grooms who held them, with wild bound,
Away they sprang; and every other spear,
Hurled at him, missed the mark.

From their amaze,
Erelong recovering, the Assyrian horse
And chariots fiercely 'gan the Medes assault:
But, when they saw Arbaces 'mid the foe,
Madder their terror, and their fury grew;
And, with loud cries, each on the other called
To slay him. He, meantime, round wheeling, saw
The chariot of the king in rapid flight;
And, pointing with his spear, cried, “Look! he flies!
Let him not 'scape! Away, away! lash on!”

Then every Median charioteer, his steeds
Turned hastily. Arbaces, at their head,
Stood in his car, and shook his beamy lance,
Death threatening. From the terror of his arm,
And from his look, the enemy shrank aside;
And swift as flight of eagle he shot by,
The king pursuing. Close behind him went
His chariots also: against them the darts
And spears flew thick: yet harmless they escaped.

Then, when the Assyrians saw the enemy pass,
Each on the other called, and furiously
Rode after them; still crying as they went,
“The Mede! the Mede! the Mede! O'ertake and slay!”

Unequalled were the coursers of the king,
And all pursuit defied. He, looking back,
His enemy in full career beheld;
The charioteers upstanding, and the scourge
Plying unceasingly: but, gladder sight!
Behind them close, Assyrian cars and horse,
Hotly pursuing. Onward as he went,
All knew him; and a thousand voices cried,
“Long live the king! long live Assyria's king!
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!
The king to battle goeth; and our foes
Shall surely fall before him!” But, while thus
They clamored, the alarm behind him grew:
Voice after voice arose, “The Mede! the Mede!
The Mede is in the city! Haste! Pursue!
Pursue, and slay! The Mede! the Mede! the Mede!”

Still fled the king,—his soul with terror filled;
His brain confused, as in a fearful dream;
That, what to do, he knew not. Doubtfully
Self-questioning then, he said: “Shall I thus fly
Ingloriously before a rebel foe?
Or shall I turn, and meet him? But my limbs
Are feeble; my heart faileth. 'Gainst him now
If I go on, surely shall I be slain;
And all my glories, all my loved delights,
Will perish like a vapour! But what then!
Is not my sole dominion o'er half earth
Threatening to pass for ever? And, disthroned,
What were life worth to me? No—let them go
Together, or together still be mine!
This arm indeed is feeble; but my foes
Are few; and fate may yet be merciful.”

Determined so, to Dara he cried out,
“Wheel round the chariot; for, against the Mede
I will go on; and slay him, or be slain.”

While self-communing thus, at rapid speed
Through the great square of Jupiter he drove.
And, when they saw him, from the multitude
Went up a joyful clamor. Then cried out
The priests who at the altar sacrificed,

“An omen! lo! an omen! Still the king
Shall triumph; and the city shall not fall!”

That hearing, the dense throng of men sent up
Yet gladder cries: and when, to curb the steeds,
And turn the chariot, Dara now began,
Thickly they gathered round: but loud he called,
“Stand from the way; the rebel is behind:
Make room, that 'gainst him may the king go on.”

The king cried also, “On him, every man!
Ten thousand golden talents unto him
That slays Arbaces!”

While he spake, the throng
Turned, and beheld, like a dark running fire,
The chariot of the Mede; behind it close,
The rebel cars; and, in a hot pursuit,
The Assyrian chariots following, and the horse.

The Mede, now drawing nigh, again stood up;
And shook a glittering spear. To the bright glare
Of torches, and the altar fires, his arms
Shone vividly: his face was like fierce flame.
The trembling throng on every side shrank back:
Nor was the king unfearing; for too well
The strength of that terrific arm he knew;
And felt his own was feeble. Yet he stood,
Poising his spear, and in his heart thus prayed:
“Great god of battles! whosoe'er thou art,
Give me to send this scourge unto the pit;
And to thy name I will a temple build
That shall o'erlook the clouds.”

As thus he prayed,
Meteor-like, the terrible Mede drew nigh;
His great spear glittering, his left foot advanced,
His body leaning back, that with the blow
He might spring onward. Terror then, and rage,
Seized on the king: his lance, with all his might,
He hurled; but lifted instantly his shield,
The answer dreading.

Full upon his breast
The weapon struck the enemy; but dropped down,
Innocuous. In the self-same moment flew,

With force as by some mighty engine cast,
The Mede's gigantic lance. The king's broad shield,—
As yet but half uplifted, and askaunt,—
With clangor horrible near the rim it struck;
Pierced not, but 'gainst him dashed it, and flew by;
Till, on the flinty pavement ringing loud,
Fire streaming as it ran, it passed from sight.

Shuddering, the monarch saw. Down dropped his arm,
Stunned by the blow; his brain was in a whirl;
His tongue was speechless; dazzled were his eyes;
And, reeling, he sank back. Then, instantly,
The spear of Azareel his breastplate smote:
Passage found not; but, with an angry ring,
That jarred him to the heart, struck, and glanced off.
Up sprang the king; another lance caught up,
And aimed for vengeance; but the foe was gone.

Next came Rabsaris. Him,—in armour strange,
And all unlooked for,—might the king have seen,
Yet known not; but that his pale, quivering lip,
Bright, burning eye, and deeply-muttered curse,
Like to a tiger's growl, betokened him.
Amazed the monarch saw; and wrathfully
His lance hurled at him. But, with deadlier rage,
Baring his hard-closed teeth, Rabsaris threw;
And, throwing, forward sprang, till from the car
Well nigh he tumbled. Half way on their course,
The spear-shafts touched; and from their aim both glanced.
The weapon of Rabsaris, on the leg
Grazed Dara; but the spear-point of the king,
One of the horses of his enemy smote,
Lancing the nostril. Hastily drew back
The wounded courser, shaking his arched neck,
Snorting, and struggling hard, as from the pang
To free himself. His frighted fellow, too,
Drew back; and suddenly the car was stopped.

The chariot also of the king was stayed;
For Dara,—by the javelin keenly stung,—
Convulsively starting, sharply jerked the reins,—

Turning the horses and the car aside,—
And, harshly grating, wheel 'gainst wheel was driven;
Shocked—and stood fixed.

With yell of fierce delight,
Rabsaris, like a panther on his prey,
Sprang in the car of the astonished king,
And grappled with him. In one hand, with clutch
Rapid as stroke of tiger's paw, he seized
The gilded band that underneath the chin
The helm secured; and, with the other, sought
To draw his dagger. By the bony fist
That pressed against his throat, nigh suffocate,
The king, unaided, speedily had fallen;
For now the weapon in his enemy's hand
Was lifted for the stroke: the neck was bare:
“This for my daughter!” cried the frenzied chief,
And drove the dagger. But, in that small space
Between the blow's commencement, and its end,
Upon the falling arm so strongly smote
The spear of Dara, that the iron nerves
Relaxed; the hard-clenched fingers lost their hold;
The dagger, bloodless, dropped. To frenzy fired,—
His left hand still against the monarch's throat,—
Rabsaris, with a look like some wild beast
Maddened with hunger, when his prey is snatched,—
To Dara turning, shrieked. “Ah, wretch accursed!
Who in a moment robb'st me of the fruit
Of years of toil, and anguish, worse than death!
Thy bones be gnawed by wolves! thy soul go down
Into the bottomless pit!” While yet he spake,
To draw his sword he strove; but the stunned nerves
Obeyed him not; his hand hung motionless.
In wrath then to his charioteer, “thou fool!
Out with thy sword, and strike!” But other thoughts
Possessed the driver. With uplifted spear,
Dara confronted him; Assyrian cars
And horse were speeding onward. With loud voice,—
While he drew back the steeds, the wheels to clear,—
Then to Rabsaris called he; “Quick! Return!
Or perish instantly.” Rabsaris saw

That all was vain, and, cursing bitterly,
Sprang to his seat again.

Confused, and wild,
Grew now the struggle; for the Assyrian horse,
And cars, came on; and, in the self-same time,
The Median chariots also, which, at length,
With labor hard had passed the gate; and all
In conflict undistinguishable mixed.

Arbaces, when his friends he first beheld,
Rejoiced, and with a glad voice called them on;
For now he deemed assuredly the king
Must perish. But, when round his car was wheeled
To go against him, lo! an iron wall
Of chariots, and mailed horse, encompassed him;
And a thick multitude, with spear and dart,
Prepared to cast. Yet still, with terrible voice,
His warriors leading on—right in the midst
He drove; and none before his face dared stand.

But soon the Assyrians, with fast-gathering force,
Hovered around, and hemmed them in; that seemed
Destruction must o'erwhelm them. Ne'ertheless,
Still furiously they fought, and many slew:
But, likewise of themselves, no few were slain;
And all with toil grew wearied. Steeds fell dead;
Cars were o'erthrown; and many a valiant heart
'Gan sicken with despair. Arbaces still
With stirring call emboldened them to fight;
“Have courage yet, for aid is drawing nigh:”
Yet to himself continually he said,
“Why lingers the Arabian king? if soon
He come not, surely shall we perish all!”

But Abdolonimus, meantime, in strife
As deadly, labored long. For, when the gate,
By none resisted, he had passed; and thought
Still unopposed to hold upon his way,—
Upon a sudden toward him coming, lo!
A warlike multitude, in close array,
Orderly marching on. The myriads these
Who, led by Tartan, had the river crossed,
And armed themselves for fight. Yet, on he must;

For path by which to shun them was there none,
Save by retreat. Beneath the flickering glare
Of torches,—from the windows, and house-tops,
Waved to and fro,—their spears, and brazen helms,
Gleamed brightly; nor, as yet, of the long train
Was seen the end; that, what their strength might be,
Could no man tell.

Paused now the Arabian king;
Stood up, looked back, and called to stay advance.
The charioteers behind at once drew rein,
And all stood still. Communing inwardly,
Then thus he questioned; “What now may this mean?
Said not Rabsaris, ‘your return is safe:
The city, wheresoever I have been,
Was filled with women only, agëd men,
And children, and with those that bear not arms.’—
Who, then, are these? But, whosoe'er they be,
Retreat, or conflict, waits us. Shall we turn?
Or shall we drive among them, and burst through?
Surely most deadly will the struggle be!
Nay, haply, all may perish! for, indeed,
Great is the multitude that cometh on.
But if, ourselves to save, we now turn back,
Then may Arbaces perish; and, with him,
The heart of all our host! No! let us on!
In God place trust; break through, or nobly die!”

Resolving thus, he raised his arm, and cried;
“What say you? Ye behold the enemy:
Shall we turn back, by flight to save ourselves,—
Godlike Arbaces leaving to his fate?
Or shall we drive among them,—force the way—
Or bravely fall; an honorable death,
To a base life preferring? Perish he
That would the vile alternate rather choose!
Upon them, then; and let the tyrant fall!”

He ceased; and the loud cry of onset rose.
Then every charioteer his horses smote;
Home drawn was every bow; and every lance,
On high was lifted. Foremost went the car
Of the swart king himself. Swift as the wind

His coursers. Standing as he flew, his voice,
Like a shrill trumpet, raised he, and cried out,
“Get from the way, or die!”

Before that rush,
The Assyrians feared to stand: to right, and left,
Hastily fled they back: but, as he passed,
Spears, darts, and arrows, shot. Behind him close,
Came every chariot, flying rapidly.
But men, and steeds were slain; cars overthrown;
And a dire struggle rose.

Then, turning back,
The Arabian king, with all who had gone through,
Again amid the Assyrians fiercely drave;
Beneath their horse-feet trampling them: and still
Upon his warriors called he, and their hearts
With courage filled, that through the gory press,
Though slowly, and with toil, and sweat, and blood,
They forced, at last, their way. The steeds with foam
Were covered, and the axles were dyed red.

Meantime, Arbaces, with his valiant few,
Held on the desperate contest; hoping still
That Abdolonimus swift aid would bring;
And that the tyrant, even yet, might fall.
Against the car-girt chariot of the king,
Arrow, and dart, and spear, strongly he drove,
Till all were spent; but, in the rock and roll
Of that rough sea of conflict, on the mark
Struck none: and him the monarch shunned; for still
He felt his arm was feeble: 'mid his horse,
And chariots, therefore, he secure remained,
And urged them to the contest.

But, when now
No arrow, dart, or spear, Arbaces found
Remaining to him,—worse than vain he deemed,
The struggle to prolong: to Geber then,
With heavy heart, thus spake; “Turn round the steeds:
Too surely Abdolonimus hath fallen;
And, if we 'bide, we also shall be slain.”

Then on his warriors he called out aloud,
Bidding them follow. They, at his command,

As best they might, 'gan from the press emerge:
But, while the horses Geber yet wheeled round,
A brazen javelin on his helmet struck,
With force terrific, that at once he dropped
Headforemost to the ground. When that was seen,
The Assyrians a great din of triumph raised,
And on the Mede called out deridingly;
For now the masterless horses, in great fright,
Ran backward, and the reins were on the earth.

With fury terrible then Arbaces burned:
Leaping from out the car, he lifted, first,
And in it placed, the senseless charioteer:
His shield, and ponderous battle-axe, took forth;
And, with a shout appalling as the roar
Of a roused lion, on the enemy sprang.

They, terrified, before him shrank aside,
Or fell beneath him. Horsemen from his path
Fled hastily; and charioteers their steeds
Lashed, to escape the sweep of his dread axe.
On, on, still toward the king right on he forced,—
Hewing his dreadful way. But, as he went,
They who before him fled, behind him came;
Horsemen, and chariots, with an iron wall
Girding him in,—that fate inevitable
Seemed settling o'er him. In that moment rose
A cry of onset, “Abdolonimus!”

The Assyrians heard, and saw,—and in their souls
Felt withering terror; for, they doubted not
The army of the conquering Medes was nigh;
The eternal city lost!

The welcome voice
Arbaces heard; and, with a burst of joy,
Shouted in answer,—toward the tyrant still
Fighting his desperate way. Then terror fell
On the yet feeble king: and, when to fly,
His captains urged him,—with a trembling hand,
He gave the signal; and the car flew on.

Short distance had he fled, ere toward him came
Horsemen in full career. He stayed his course,
Ill news expecting. Sharply they drew rein;

And Zadok, leaping from his steed, advanced,
And cried unto him. “Let my lord the king
Go instantly upon the plain. More fierce
Than fire the foe doth wax. Assyria's hosts
Tremble and fly before him. Oh, great lord!
Hasten then instantly, and strengthen them;
Else must the city fall; for, with the throng
Of fliers, all the northern gates are choked.”

Sore trouble then upon the monarch came,
And in his heart he said; “On every side
They compass me about! This very night,
Perchance, the sceptre of Assyria's kings
Shall be reft from me; the great city fall!
Then let me also perish! On the plain,
And in the sacred city, death invites.
If from the gates I go,—by some vile hand,
Even like a peasant-churl, may I be slain
Ingloriously; no chance of sweet revenge,
To savour the death-draught: but, by the hand
Of yon dread homicide in fight to fall,
Not ignominious quite,—for king he is,
Though rebel; and, in valour, like a god,
To rule the battle: and, should fate decree,
In the same hour, his end; and by this lance,—
The bitterness of death would sweet become,
And I could die rejoicing. 'Gainst him, then,
Will I go back; and slay him, or be slain.”

Resolving thus, to Dara he cried out;
“Turn round the chariot. Not upon the plain
Will I go forth, ingloriously to fall;
But the great rebel meet;—by him to die,
Or him, perchance, to slay.”

Unwillingly,
Dara the car wheeled round; and the king rose,
With hard grasp on his spear—burning to strike.

But, where the Medes had stood, was now clear room;
Nor, by the torch light, and the altar fires,
Saw he one car, remaining of them all.
Great was his wonder: but, when Zadok still
Conjured him; and his captains also spake,

Exhorting; boldly then again he cried;
“Once more, then, on! Arbaces now hath fled!
Surely the strength we dreaded, was not nigh,
Or he had still pursued. After him now,
Horsemen, and chariots! Drive him from the walls!
Or capture him—or slay! But, for myself,
I will go forth; and with my people stand;
Or with them fall!—Ten horse, two cars, alone,
With me come on:—all else, back in pursuit!”

As ordered, was it done. Dara wheeled round;
And toward the field, with such scant train, the king
Hurried impetuously.

But not to flight
Had turned Arbaces. He, when first the king
Hasting to shun him, he had seen,—cried out
Exultingly; and to his chariot ran,
Eager to mount, and follow. On the seat,
Ruling his steeds, he Jeroboam found,
The Hyrcanian; for a grievous sickness yet
Hung on prince Geber,—though to sense returned,
And in the chariot sitting. Like to one
Drunken with wine, his head hung heavily;
His arms drooped strengthless, and his eyes were closed.

Upspringing then, to Jeroboam cried
The joyful Mede, “Haste,—lash the horses on;
The tyrant yet shall fall.” But, while he spake,
Came Azareel, crying aloud, “Stay! stay!
Arbaces, I implore thee go not on
In mad pursuit of what thou ne'er canst reach,—
Thy safety risking, and the lives of all!
Our steeds are wearied; but the king's, like stags
Fresh from their lair. And, should'st thou overtake,
What hope of good? Our weapons all are spent;
Our strength sore wasted: succour can be none;
But foes may gather numberless. Pursuit
Is death: in wise retreat is life, and hope
Of a great victory yet. Bethink thee well,—
Here lingering longer, what our chance to escape;
What hope of 'vantage! All the Northern gates
Must now be closed against us: and our foes,

Like a roused hornet's nest, erelong will swarm,
And sting us to the death.”

“Enough, enough!”
The generous Mede replied: “Thou teachest me
My folly; and I thank thee. Let him go!
Not less the city shall before us fall;
His throne shall be cast down!” A moment still,
Even like a lion whom his prey hath 'scaped,
Toward the yet flying king his eyes he turned;
Then stood, and cried, “Now every man alight;
And from the earth snatch arrow, dart, and spear,—
For thick they lie around—lest, all unarmed,
We meet opposal: toward the gate of Bel
Then on,—but slowly; that our panting steeds
May gather breath; and lest the insolent foe
Should boast we fled before him.”

At the word,
All ran, and gathered weapons: then arose;
And on together moved, firmly, and slow.
Arbaces led them; while the gazing throng
In silence saw them pass; and lifted not
An arm against them. But, when all were gone,
Loudly the people cried, deriding them;
And after them their idle weapons cast;
And of their valour boasted.

Meantime on,
Calmly awhile, the Median warriors moved;
Nor opposition found: but when, at length,
Behind them far the clamor of the throng
Had ceased; and of pursuit no sign appeared;
Then to their horses they flung up the reins,
Shaking the scourge, and with a cheerful voice
Encouraging. To the rebounding wheels,
The streets resounded, and the hoofs' thick clang.

BOOK THE SEVENTEENTH.

Meanwhile, upon the plain raged uproar dire:
In terror everywhere the Assyrians fled;
The exulting Medes pursued them. 'Midst of all,
Conspicuous chiefly, shone Belesis now;
Crying continually, “Behold the hour
Is nigh at hand! the everlasting walls
Shall be thrown down! the tyrant shall be slain!
The fetters from the nations shall be reft!
Drive on your enemies then, and trample them.
The eye of God beholds us. His dread voice
Hath on the wicked city spoken doom!
His arm to her destruction is stretched forth!
On! On! this night, perchance, her fate shall come!”

The king, meantime, as from despair itself,
New strength and courage gathering, to the field
Once more went forth,—his kingdom and his throne,
To save, resolved, or nobly with them fall.

Through the loud echoing streets, as toward the gate
Of Nisroch he drave on,—dense throngs he met,
Flying distractedly. But, when his car
Was seen; and the small force that with him came
To go against the rebel,—then fell shame
Upon the fugitives, and they turned back.
And still, as spread the cry, “Behold the king
Is going forth to battle,” all who fled,
Stopped instantly; and 'gan to turn again:
So that with him, at length, a mighty host,
Chariots, and horse, and foot, together moved.

These things beholding, more the king was cheered;
And strongly he called out; “Haste to the men
Upon the northern wall. Bid them upheap
Fires numberless, and countless torches lift,
That a great light may be upon the plain.
And, as ye go, cry out, that all may hear,
‘The king is coming forth. Let every man
Be brave, and fear not; for the rebel yet
Shall be cast down, and trodden under foot.’”

Then all who heard him, raised a mighty shout;
Proclaiming what he said: and when the men
Upon the wall had heard, they, too, lift up
Their voices, and to them upon the plain
Cried out, “The king to battle cometh forth:
Be brave, and fear not; for the rebel yet
Shall be cast down, and trodden under foot.”

Then speedily they kindled up the fires;
And every agëd man, and every boy,
And every woman on the wall, held forth
A torch bright flaming; so that o'er the field
Was there red light, as of the setting sun.

But not at once went forth the king; for yet
Unordered were the fliers; and new strength,
Horsemen, and cars, were gathering to him still.

At length the word was given, and all moved on.

Nigh to the gate, the chariot of the queen
Still waited; and, upstanding, as they passed,
Still to the soldiers she called stirringly:
“Think on your wives, your children, and your homes!
Your agëd parents, and your tottering babes,
Cry out to you! When ye lift up your swords,
Call on the gods for aid: and turn not back;
But nobly conquer, or with honor die!
Oh! not in vain your blood will stain the ground!
Even as a precious sacrifice, will heaven
Receive the smoke thereof; and on your foes
Bring vengeance; on your children, and their sons,
Ages of blessing bring. Go, brave men, go!
Go forth to victory, or to noble death!”

So cried she: and her face shone radiantly
As summer's morning. Every soldier's heart,
At her bright aspect, and her words of fire,
New courage gathered; every foot seemed swift,
And every arm grew strong. But, when the king
Drew nigh, with yet a brighter light she glowed;
And, lifting up her arms, cried fervently,—
“King of Assyria, go: thy people save,
Even as before thou savedst. Shield this night
Thy city from the spoiler;—and the hearts
Of living millions, millions yet unborn,
Will call down blessings on thee. Be thy voice
Dread as Heaven's thunder! lightning be thine eyes,
To wither utterly those cursëd ones!
Let not the sceptre from thy hands be reft,
And from thy children! Like a whirlwind sweep
Yon field rebellious! like dry forest-leaves,
Scatter thine enemies! To the battle, then!
And may the god of armies lead thee on!”

So she; and like war's fabled goddess seemed,
In her grand aspect, her majestic form,
And spirit-stirring voice. The admiring king,
Gazed on her glorious beauty; and his heart,
Even in that hour of dread, a moment's throb
Of passion felt. But the loud storm of war
Howled in his ears; and love to rage gave place.
At her bold words, as with a kindling fire,
His bosom burned: and, when he grasped his spear,
One half its weight was gone. Then through the gate
With a strong heart he went: and every man
From him took courage. Horsemen spurred amain;
The charioteers their foaming coursers smote;
And on the roaring plain, like some proud fleet,
Before a strong wind, from the river's mouth
In a vexed sea emerging—through the gate,
Deep in the ocean of their enemies drove.

Meantime, Arbaces, through the echoing streets,
Toward Bel's great portal moved on steadily.

Few were the foes whom by the way he saw,—
Jaded and flying. From the city's glare
Passing at length, upon the plain he found
Thick darkness; for no moon was in the heaven;
And a dense vault of cloud shut out the stars:
But, northward as he turned, on earth he saw
A lurid gleam, and on the sky a tinge,
Like sunset's dying fire. Darkling drave he,—
His chariots close behind; and not a man
Spake any word. Onward, and onward still,
As they advanced, more clear the light became;
The sounds of battle louder, and more loud:
But, toward the northern wall as they wheeled round,
With fury tenfold burst the horrid din;
A fiery glare was over all the field,
And a terrific struggle. Then they raised
Their scourges, and the horses bounded on.

But, to the outskirt of the Median force
When they had reached,—Arbaces paused awhile,
And to a Bactrian charioteer called out;
“Bring thy car hither—close. Now, gently bear
Prince Geber from the field; for he is bowed
With grievous sickness; and may not again
Endure the combat.” Lighting, while he spake,
In his own arms Arbaces then his friend
Uplifted; in the Bactrian's car disposed;
And, as they parted, warmly pressed his hand,
And bade be of good cheer. His chariot then
Remounted; and to Jeroboam thus:
“Now with a heedful watchfulness move on;
Lest our own soldiers we should trample down:
But, near the enemy when we shall come,—
Burst on them like a midnight thunderbolt.”

So cautiously they went. As they passed by,
The soldiers knew them, and cried out aloud,
Rejoicing; for the word had gone about
That their great chief had fallen; and their hearts
Sorely had sorrowed. Still, as they moved on,
Arbaces, to the chariots, and the horse,
Whom they beheld, called out, and bade them join

To his their force; that, with a greater strength,
They might break on their enemies. So they,
With every moment gathering might, went on.

But, while yet distant, they the battle saw,
Dreadfully raging; for, upon the wall,
Fire after fire shook forth its banner bright,
And torches numberless waved ceaselessly,—
That all the plain, like to a burning sea,
With fearful splendor rocked. Chariots, and horse,
Bright helmets, gleaming mail, and tossing plumes,
Tumultuously were working to and fro,
Like sea-foam 'mid the breakers.

As they looked,
Lo! from the gate of Nisroch, cars, and horse,
A mighty multitude, poured furiously.
The tumult then, and cries, grew more and more,
And the king's name was heard. Arbaces saw,
And in his heart thus said: “Assyria's lord
Is issuing there; but not to victory now!
Is this the night decreed, when he shall go
Proudly to battle, never to return?
What is your will, ye all o'erruling gods?
But, to the ear of man ye answer not;
Your words—events: great empires rise, and fall,
Your thoughts to speak: and even this night, perchance,
The haughty city shall in ruins write
Your dread decree unspoken.” Thus mused he;
Then nigher to the wall, where space was clear,
Turned suddenly; and, with a mighty force,
Chariots and horse, attended,—toward the gate
Of Nisroch, with an eagle's swiftness flew;
And 'gainst the foe, still issuing, with a shout
Strong as the War-God's battle-cry, drove on.

Even as a flooded river, with great noise,
Its turbid waters in a raging sea
Rolls headlong, beating back the angry waves—
So had the ponderous chariots, and the horse
Of the Assyrians, pouring from the gate,
Driven back the furious onset of their foes.

Yet as, brief space elapsed, the encountering floods

In undistinguishable conflict mix,
Roaring, and foaming; and, like mortal foes,
Grappling, and madly writhing, wave with wave,
That neither victor, neither vanquished seems,—
So had the Assyrian torrent, from the Medes,
Erelong stern greeting met; that, soon, the fight,
With hideous uproar, and confusion dire,
On both sides, with like force and fury raged.

But as, at length, with irresistible might,
Some giant wave along the howling shore
Comes towering on; and, at its very mouth,
The river sweeps aside; right through the path
Of its strong waters breaking,—even so,
Arbaces with his chariots, nigh the wall
Fiercely careering,—by the very gate,
Broke, overwhelming, on the issuing foe;
Dividing those that were upon the plain,
From those within the city.

Then began
Confusion infinite; cries of maddening fear,
With peals of triumph mingling. From the gate
Distant three arrow-flights, the monarch fought;
And, in the hurly, knew not that the foe
Behind had come, and all retreat cut off.
But, through the din, to them who manned the wall,
Came down a shriek of anguish. From the tower,
The queen, forth-looking, saw the impending fate;
Flung up her arms,—and, as of heaven, and man,
For aid imploring, called. “The king! the king!
Help! help! the king! the king!”

Her words were caught,
And flashed along the wall. Cried thousands then,
“The king is in the midst of enemies!
Fly to the rescue!” Also on the plain
Went up a cry, “Arbaces! Gather round—
Hem in the rebel—let him not escape!”

The cries flew on; and in both armies rose
Fresh fury. From all sides the Assyrians pressed,
The king to rescue; from all sides the Medes,
With shouts victorious, hasted to attack.

As when a whirlwind 'mid the forest roars,
Swinging the huge heads of the groaning trees,—
East, North, West, South, it turns,—in giddy wheel
Rocking the howling wilderness,—even so,
In wild confusion tossing, reeling round,
Toiled the close mingling hosts: here, fiercely driven;
There, hotly driving: helmet clashing loud
'Gainst helmet; shield 'gainst shield, and sword 'gainst sword;
Steed blowing against steed; and wheel 'gainst wheel
Horribly grinding.

That loud cry of fear,
Pealed from the wall, Assyria's monarch heard;
And, backward looking, saw the Median cars
Behind him; and the foe on all sides round
Against him urging. Then his countenance fell;
And in his heart he said; “The hour is come!
My kingdom is departing from me! Still,
Let me not die, upon mine enemies
All unavenged. Could I but pierce the heart
Of the great rebel,—let his spear in mine
Be buried instantly, I heed not! Ha---
His name I hear: his voice, too, hear I not?
And Ahab, the false Bactrian,—upon him,
Boasting, they call. Now, by the eternal gods!
Against them both will I go back; and slay,
Or else by them be slain!” Resolving thus,
To Dara he called out; “Turn round the car,
Swift as thou may;—the rebel is behind.
Right toward the gate drive back; and, if thou see
The chariot of Arbaces, or the car
Of Ahab, the false Bactrian,—then the steeds
Urge to their utmost, and drive wheel in wheel;
For I will slay them, or by them be slain.
But, if thou see them not,—back through the gate,
Speed as thou may; for, of a truth, hath God
This night his face against us set; and given
His strength unto our enemies.”

These words
The charioteer grieved sorely; for he thought

Upon his promise to Nehushta given,
Her sire to guard in battle; and saw now
That all his power was gone. Reluctantly
Then drew he at the reins; but, 'mid the throng,
The horses were entangled, and the wheels
Fast locked; for now, of chariots and of horse,
Both Median and Assyrian, was the press
Terrific; nor, awhile, could any move,
Advancing, or retreating. Thousands there
Were crushed, and trampled: thousands, in their cars,
Or on their horses, slain,—unto the ground
Fell not,—so dense the thronging; but—borne up,
Hither and thither, on the hard-wedged mass,—
Seemed as the ghastly fragments of a wreck,
On war's stern ocean rocking. Sword, and axe,
Arrow, and iron dart, and shortened spear,
With their grim toil were crimsoned. Wheel in wheel
Horribly grinding, clashed; trace, axle, broke;
Horse 'gainst horse reared,—close grappling, chest to chest;
Fire from their eye-balls flashing—snorted, shrieked;
And madly, with bared teeth, each other tore.

So stood the fight. With bow, spear, dart, or sword,
Hotly the monarch combated: but still
His valour was despair; for, all around,
Nor distant far, he heard the direful roar
Of his fierce enemies; and, for the throng,
Even of his friends, might not by flight escape.

But, in awhile, o'er all the din of fight,
Came to his ear the strong and terrible voice
Of his great foe. Behind him looking then,
The towering form in his high car he saw,
Through the thick press of chariots, steeds, and men,
Too rapidly advancing: for the Medes,
Well as they might, drew back, to give him room;
The Assyrians, as they could, to fly from him.

As when a lion, monarch of the wastes
Of desert Afric, prowling for his prey,
Hears from afar the bellowing of wild bull,—
His shaggy mane upstarts; his eyes are flame;

From his deep chest quick thunder-pantings burst:
Onward he springs; and, through the tangled copse,—
Rending, and crashing, trampling, bowing down,—
Forces his headlong way,—Arbaces so,
Through the dense throng of the Assyrians held
His course resistless; ever toward the king
Urging impetuously; all meaner foes
O'erlooking, or despising.

At that sight,
Fury, and terror, on the monarch seized:
Bending his bow, shaft after shaft he drove
Against the Mede; and still to Dara called,
“Force on the chariot! I will meet him now.”

Dara smote then the steeds; and with loud voice
Incited them. Like prisoned tigers, they
Franticly bounded, snorted, and reared up;
And forward dashed again. But, close in front,
Were many powerful horses; and the wheels,
On either side, 'gainst other wheels were jammed;
So that with difficulty, right, and left,
Dragging a ponderous car, they labored on.
Still, looking back, shaft after shaft, the king
'Gainst his foe drove. The Mede, upon his prey
His eyes for ever fixing, heeded not;
But, with his whole collected force, at length,
Swift as an arrow, toward him launched a spear.

Drawing his bow, the monarch stood; the barb
Touched almost on the arch,—when bow and shaft
Dropped from his hands: for the tempestuous lance
Struck on his crest; snapped short the girding band
That passed beneath his chin; and on the ground,
Amid the horse-feet, drove the gleaming helm.

Back in his car Sardanapalus reeled;
Amazed, and stunned; yet wildly staring round.
Then saw he that his steeds were masterless;
For, as the spear from his own helm had glanced,—
Rapidly swinging round, the ashen beam
To the ground had stricken Dara,—the reins still
Grasped in his hand. The Irresistible,
Dread as an angry god, was coming on;

In his strong gripe another beamy lance,
The death-stroke threatening: then the monarch's soul
Within him sank; bewildered was his brain:
The royal crimson mantle first flung off,—
'Neath his broad buckler cowering, to the ground
He hasted; in his tremor muttering,
“Even yet, perchance, unseen I may escape.”

Then surely had he perished,—'mid the steeds
And chariots crushed; but that a hand unknown,
Pressed o'er his brow a helmet; and a voice,
Deep and commanding, in his ear thus spake:
“Into my car, O king, now get thee up;
And fear not; for thine hour not yet is come.”

The countenance of him that spake, was dark
As the storm-cloud; his eye like the red bolt
That breaketh from it. Of gigantic height
The form was, though sore wasted; and the arm
Was mighty. While yet speaking, to his car
The king he lifted; then himself upsprang.

The helm which on the bowed head he had pressed,
Was black, and plumeless: a black mantle now,—
That so the gorgeous arms might be concealed,—
He flung upon his shoulders: with quick hand,
Next, from the nerveless, trembling arm, he took
The golden shield; into the royal car
Upflung it,—in its place, a buckler gave,—
Steel, darkened in the fire: seized then the reins;
And, as they onward moved, close to his ear
Thus said: “Speak not, O king, lest to the foe
Thy words betray thee: and, whate'er betide,
Draw not the sword,—but, underneath thy shield,
Lie safe from peril,—so, within the walls
Unharmed thou may escape. But, for thine hosts,
They utterly discomfited will be;
Nor mortal power can save them.”

Answer none
The monarch made; nor of resistance thought:
A dizziness was in his brain; his limbs,
As in a fearful dream, were motionless.
Through the dense throng, slowly the car made way;

And no man knew him; for loud cries went up,
“The king is slain! the gods are with our foes!
Fly to the city, and make fast the gates!”

Dara, meantime, recovering quickly, sprang
Into the royal car; and, anxiously
Around him looking, saw the helpless king
In a mean chariot, and in strange attire;
And knew he shunned the conflict. To himself
Then thus; “In that disguise he may escape:
My voice shall not reveal him. Safer thus,
Than by his wind-swift horses rapt along,
In his own blazing chariot. But, for me,
Sole duty now, from the fierce foe to save
The steeds, and priceless car. Give me clear room,
Then may they follow; and, if their worn steeds
Can overtake the arrow in its flight,
Not vain may be pursuit.”

Thus he, and strove
From out the press to move. But Zimri now,
Who had the monarch's fall, and flight beheld,—
Leaped to the ground, and to his charioteer
Thus spake: “Now, with what speed thou may, get hence;
And to the city take my car and steeds.
The chariot of the king, which he hath left,
Shall bear me through the battle.” Having said,
He stooped; caught from the earth the monarch's helm;
Upon his own head placed it; and at once,
Sprang in the royal chariot. O'er his back,
The gorgeous crimson mantle next he threw;
The golden buckler braced upon his arm;
And thus to Dara: “Now lash on the steeds:
The press is opening, and we yet may save
The rich car, and the horses from the foe.
If he the blazing helm shall see—doubt not
Arbaces will pursue; so shall the king
Escape him; and to us a great reward
Surely will give: while our detested foe
Shall we mock bitterly; and, haply, slay.
Drive therefore on: but, swiftly as thou may,
Turn eastward; and the northern wall approach,—

Skirting it close; for thence the foe keeps back;
Dreading the stone, the arrow, and the spear,
From the high battlement.”

Him Dara heard,
Approving; and, with cool and skilful hand,
The horses guiding, through the living maze
Slowly 'gan wind. But Zimri, turning now,
And shouting, 'gainst Arbaces hurled his lance:
Another then caught up, and poised to throw.

Full on the breast the weapon struck the Mede;
But harmed him not. Nor, though the shout he heard,
Knew he whence came it; for, in combat hot,
That moment stood he: nor, as yet, he knew—
Such the confusion,—that the king had fled:
So that when now, within the royal car,
The diamond-flashing helm, the golden shield,
And crimson vest he saw, nought doubted he
That therein still he rode. The armour, too,
Of Zimri was right splendid to behold;
His stature like the king's. Arbaces thus
By show deceived; and confident that now
The tyrant underneath his arm would fall,—
His spear uplifted, with one righteous blow
Hoping the world to free. But Fate forbade:
For, in that moment, through the opening press,
Arrow-swift darted on the royal car;
And the fell aim was balked. “He flies! he flies!”
Aloud then cried he, “see—the tyrant flies!
Coward! thou canst not 'scape! thine hour is come!”
To Jeroboam then; “Now, now,—away,—
Lash on the horses; let him not escape!”

But Zimri with exulting heart beheld
The Mede pursuing; and to Dara thus;
“The fish hath gorged the bait! See, where he comes,—
Hoping the king to slay! Traitor, and fool!
Ay, madman! rage, and scourge thy wearied brutes.
As well the Sloth might chase the Antelope,
As thy dull beasts our storm-swift steeds pursue!
Meantime the king will 'scape; our stricken host
From this foul pest be freed; and, haply, yet
Drive back the rebels. But, check now the steeds,

Lest he lose sight of us, and turn again;
And so escape me. Yet not overnear
Let him approach: and close beneath the wall
Speed when thou may; lest 'mid the enemy
We be entangled.”

At these words well pleased,
Dara the horses guided cunningly,—
The foe avoiding; keeping still in view
Of the pursuing Mede; till, clearer space
Attaining now, close underneath the wall
Gladly he drove. The Assyrians, looking down,
Knew well the royal car, and let it pass:
But, when the chariot of Arbaces came,
Darts, arrows, stones, let fly.

Not unobserved,
The royal car had from the fight withdrawn:
Chariots, and horse, Medes, and Assyrians, both,—
These for defence, those for pursuit, flew on;
So that, of either host, no few, at length,
Behind the chariot of Arbaces went.

He, nothing heeding, urged upon his way;
And in his heart still said; “The tyrant now
Surely will perish; for the gates are closed;
His valiant captains all are far away.”
And, ever and anon, he cried aloud,
“Behold! his horses flag! Strength have they not
Much longer to fly from me. Full of blood,
High fed, and pampered, soon will they be spent.
Now, Jeroboam, ply the scourge: our steeds
In truth are wearied; but, to toil inured,
And trained for use, not idle pageantry,
Thrice will outwear yon sleek and courtly drones.”

So he: but ever, as they nigher drew,
The royal car sprang from them; for, less swift
The shadow of the storm-cloud sweeps the earth,—
Wearying the eye that strives its course to track,—
Than might the horses of Assyria's king,
To full speed urged. But, with a tightened rein,
Dara still curbed them; fearful lest, too far
Pursuit outstripping, might the Mede despair
To overtake; and thus his dreaded arm

Turn to the fight again. Delaying now,
Now speeding onward, they the impatient Mede
Lured thus to chase them, and the battle quit.

But, in the shadow of the eastern wall
When they turned round; and saw that, save from gleam
Of fire-tinged cloud, before them was dusk night,—
To Dara, Zimri thus: “At slow pace now;
Lest in this gloom he lose us, and return;
And so escape me.”

To his feet, anon,
Upstarting, he looked backward; sharply then,
“Stop! let us listen.”

Gently, but at once,
The car was stayed. Then Dara, too, stood up;
Looked back, and hearkened.

“Gods! he has returned!”
Fiercely cried Zimri. “Yet he shall not 'scape!
Wheel round, and after him!”

But, on his arm
A pressure; in his ear a warning “hush,”
Checked him; and still he listened.

“Hist!” he said;
“Methought I heard the blowing of his steeds. . . .
Again . . . He comes! His giant bulk I see,
'Gainst the red cloud, like some huge hideous god
Of Ethiopia, sculptured from the rock.
Ha—now he sees us: let the coursers go.”

But, when the cars and horse that followed them,
Both Median and Assyrian, had wheeled round
In the thick shadow of the Eastern wall,—
As with one mind, their jaded steeds they curbed;
“For surely hath the king escaped,” they said;
“And farther toil were vain.” So to the fight
Slowly did some return: some slacked the reins,
When they stood still; and on the dewy grass
Let their tired horses feed; themselves, the while,
Their outworn limbs relaxing for repose;
These, in their chariots stretched,—those, on their steeds;
With drooping head and body, a short sleep,

And troubled, snatching.

But Arbaces nought
Relaxed pursuit; though often did he turn,
And look behind; for, fainter, and more faint,
The sounds of conflict came. Within his heart
Still said he, “Surely now the Assyrian host
Must utterly be vanquished; and my arm
Cannot be needed for the victory.
Let me but slay the tyrant; and in him
Will all be overcome. He cannot 'scape
Within the walls; for every gate is closed.
Heaven grant my horses do not fail me now!
Yet, after but short rest, from set of sun
Have they toiled on; and sorely wearied are.
The tyrant's steeds are fresh; but full of blood;
And less to toil inured: so, haply, soon
May they be wearied; and my coursers yet
O'ertake them in their flight. All-ruling Power,
In whose hands are the mighty of the earth
But as the sands which the wind scattereth,
Hear thou my prayer! This despot to my hands
Deliver; and the groaning nations free!”

So he; and, with a cheerful voice, the steeds
Encouraged to their toil. With stamping foot,
Shaking the reins, the driver urged them on.

But vain their labor, had not Zimri now,
In pride and foolishness of heart, resolved
His foe to meet; that, should he slay him not,
He might at least deride, and madden him.
Seeing that from the battle now far off
Were they; and that the Mede no aid had nigh;
Thus in his heart he said; “Traitor, and fool!
Scourge on; scourge till thy stumbling brutes fall down,
And cast thee headlong! The dull owl as well
Might think to outfly the eagle. Pity 'tis
Thy towering aim to slay Assyria's king,
Thus should be mocked. A great renown, no doubt,
From this night's bravery thou dost hope to achieve.
But, haply, thy own murky torch may die,
Where thou didst look to see Assyria's sun
From its bright sphere cast down. Now, far enough

The king hath fled: against thee shall he turn:
Though Zimri's spear within thee, less delight
May give, than thou hadst felt, to see thine own
Rock in thy monarch's heart. Rebel, heed well!
Thy foot upon my neck hath been: look now
That thou thyself be not worse trodden down.
In love thou'st robbed me; in ambition foiled;
But, in fair combat, never hast o'ercome.
Give me, great gods, this pestilence to drive
From face of earth; and if in that same hour
I, too, must fall, triumphant shall I die!”

Resolving thus, to Dara he called out;
“No more we'll fly: turn therefore now the steeds,
That we may meet the rebel; for I feel
That Fate this hour hath given him to my spear.”

This counsel pleased not Dara; for he hoped
The royal car to save: nor willingly
Would he again the terrible Mede confront.
Neither the might of Zimri trusted he;
For well he knew that fury blinded him;
And that, against Arbaces' iron arm,
His utmost force were weak as infancy:
Therefore the steeds he turned not, but replied;
“Surely I may not so unto the king,
For the rich chariot and the steeds account,
Which he hath trusted to me. Think awhile.
When he shall ask, ‘Where be the steeds and car,
The price of realms, which to thy care were left?’
Will it a tale well pleasing to him be,
If I shall say, ‘Thy horses and thy car
Unharmed were brought from fight; but, foolishly,
Though nigh the gate, and safe, again we turned
To meet the foe; and, truly, are they now
A spoil unto Arbaces.’ How shall I
Thus answer to the king?”

The ireful soul
Of Zimri kindled, when these words he heard;
And hotly he replied; “Then, when the car
And horses to the Mede have spoil become,
Let thy tongue so excuse thee. How know'st thou
That unto mine his arm shall not submit?

His steeds and car to me become a spoil?
Art thou afraid to meet him? But, think well:
For, will not the king's anger 'gainst thee rise,
If I shall say to him, ‘Behold, my lord,
The god of battles to my sword and spear
Had the arch-rebel given; but, even then,
Thy charioteer was fearful, and fled on;
And he hath 'scaped us.’ Of a truth, the king
Would send thee to the death. Turn then the car,
For my lance hotly thirsteth for his blood.”

But neither at these words was Dara moved
That peril to meet; and sharply he replied;
“Unto the king alone the servant I;
And of none other will commanded be.
If Fate, indeed, unto thy spear and sword
Hath given the Mede,—then from the car descend,
And go against him; for thou must prevail:
But the king's chariot shall not with thee go;
For, in the fight too oft have I beheld
The rebel's might; and will not tempt it now.”

Still Dara spake when, stamping furiously,
Zimri cried out, “Turn instantly the car,
Thou soft, white-livered boy! or, to thy cost,
Shalt thou be taught, that other might than his,
And nearer, threats thee. Turn, thou dastard, turn,
Or I will strike thee dead!”

By those foul words
To the height incensed, Dara his sword drew forth:
But, in a moment, Zimri snatched the reins,
And hurled him to the ground. With heavy shock
Down fell he, and lay stunned: while, yelling loud,
Zimri, to make the wheel pass over him,
The horses strove to guide. But, scared, they fled:
And when, at length, the madman wheeled them round,
He saw Arbaces, with his panting steeds,
Right toward him driving. Instantly, the reins
Upon the hooks he flung; and, catching up
His spear, stood bending backward for the throw.

That seeing, greatly was the Mede rejoiced;
For his sore wearied steeds drooped piteously;

And he had feared the king at last would 'scape.
Nor, even though now the cars were drawing nigh,
And dawn was brightening,—would he yet have known
How he befooled had been, but that, with laugh
Of bitter mockery, and maniac yell,
Zimri betrayed himself. Too mad to wait
Fit moment for the throw, “Ah dog accursed!”
He bellowed—forward sprang, and hurled his lance.
Sullenly whirring flew the weapon on;
But high above the mark.

Surprised, enraged,
Arbaces saw that he was foiled, and mocked,
And his long labor wasted. Ne'ertheless,
Before him still was one detested wretch,
Deriding him, and glorying in his fraud.
Even in the instant when the truth flashed out,
'Gainst him he hurled his spear. On his right side,
It struck the foe; but from the bright steel glanced:
Yet, such the shock that, backward staggering,
Down in the car he dropped: and, swift as gust
Of rain-charged wind, the terrified coursers flew.

Recovering quickly, Zimri caught the reins;
And, harshly dragging, strove to turn them back.
With cooler hand, the Median charioteer
Soon wheeled his steeds; and, at a rapid pace,
'Gainst him impelled them. But the senseless rage
Of Zimri had ungovernable made
His horses; and they would not meet the foe.
Wide circling, round the chariot of the Mede,
With strong necks proudly arching, still they flew;
Submitting half, but 'gainst the powerful arm
That would control them, half rebellious still.

Arbaces, that beholding, laughed aloud;
And, snatching up his bow, an arrow sent.
The well-aimed shaft, close underneath the chin
Of Zimri passed, and grazed his throat. Slight pain
Felt he; but, at the laughter, double rage.
With harsh thick voice he bellowed to the steeds;
Smote them: and, backward leaning, at the reins
Dragged till his eye-balls started. But, out flew

A second shaft; and, through the mail of steel,
Though slantwise entering, stung him in the side.

Not deep it pierced, yet cutting was the pang:
And, when the gibes and laughter of his foes
Burst forth, his fury to stark madness grew.
Tearing the arrow out, his axe he seized,—
Against the headstrong steeds, with all his strength,
Hurled it,—and, with a maniac's bound, leaped forth.

Upon the lifted forehead of a horse,
The weapon fell; and smote him to the earth.
The frontlet of strong brass prevented wound;
But, stunned, the noble courser, as if dead,
Dropped motionless. His fellows, for a space,
Heavily dragged him on; then paused, and stood,
Foaming, and panting; with erected manes,
And eye-balls wildly flashing.

But, meantime,
Zimri, like tiger from the toils broke loose,
Flew on his enemy. In either hand,
A spear he grasped; the sword was on his thigh:
But, the broad golden buckler of the king,
In rage had he forgotten; for all thought,
Of vengeance solely was; of self-defence,
Oblivious quite. Arbaces, him on foot
Beholding, thus to Jeroboam said:
“Alight thou quickly; and his chariot seize.
The caitiff hath a noble horse struck down;
And now his fellows stir not. With thy sword
Divide the traces, if the steed be slain;
And have all prompt to fly. Then, should I fall,—
Nay, smile not, for to God the fight belongs,—
Linger thou not, a vain respect to pay,
Or useless strife to wage: fly instantly;
And to our hosts the glorious trophy bear.
But, for this miscreant, surely shall he die!”

Thus he, and from the chariot, at a bound,
Sprang to the earth. The sound of his descent
Was like the ring and tramp of mailëd steed,
Starting for battle. On his thigh, the sword;

In his right hand, a spear: but, in his haste,
For his own massive buckler, the light shield
Of Geber he had caught; and knew it not.
Yet Zimri, when he saw the Mede approach,
Nought dreaded,—so all sense in rage was lost.
Gnashing his teeth, his lips with foam besprent,
'Gainst him he flew, and, with a madman's strength,
Hurled forth his lance. Well for Arbaces now
That even the shield of Geber he had brought:
Better had been, if his own massive orb
Had guarded him; for, toward his forehead right
Flew the tempestuous weapon; through the plates
Of steel and brass, with loud crash tore its way;
And 'twixt the eyebrows pierced him.

Slight the wound,
But sharp the sting: from both eyes quickly gushed
A watery stream, which, with the trickling gore
Commingling, filled, and well nigh blinded them.
With his right hand, in haste he wiped away
The darkening fluid; then his spear upraised:
But, instantly the dimness coming back,
He cast it not; for now no other lance
Remained unto him. With a laugh of scorn
And mockery, Zimri his confusion saw;
And, leaping round, with rapid thrust on thrust,
Aimed at his back: but, like a moving cloud,
Dimly Arbaces saw him; and still turned,
The stab evading. Round, and round again,
And to and fro, sprang Zimri; mocking still,
And still, with lance protruded, a fell wound
Aiming to make.

Arbaces, as he might,
Defensive stood; in that most perilous strait,
Cool and collected, as no danger were.
From time to time, with quick hand he wiped off
The blinding moisture; then his dreaded lance,
Threatening, upraised; but still forbore to throw,
Till clearer sight should come: and Zimri still,
When the huge beam uplifted he beheld,

Started away; yet not less quick returned,
The harassing strife to wage.

But now, at length,
Impatient grew the Mede; for still his eyes
With blood and tears were dimmed; and o'er his brain
Confusion strange, and giddiness, 'gan steal,
That seemed as earth and sky were reeling round:
And when, at last,—piercing his leg behind,
Sharply he felt the spear-point of the foe;
And his malicious laughter near him heard,—
Then, by the upper end, his heavy lance
Suddenly grasping,—with a backward stroke,
Chance-driven, he whirled it round. Like wand of ice
On a rock striking, the strong ashen beam
Against the steel-cased warrior shivering flew.
But the thick mail, by that gigantic blow,
Was crushed, and beaten in. Upon the loins
Zimri received it; breathless, blackening, reeled;
Sank tottering on his knees; spread out his hands;
Slid forward; and, face down, lay motionless.

Arbaces, blinded by the trickling blood,
Saw not, as yet, that his strong foe had fallen;
Though well he felt that on no living thing,
Harmless such blow could light. With hasty hand,
His eyes he pressed; drew sword, and glanced around;
But nowhere saw his enemy. Not the less,—
Some cunning wile suspecting,—with quick ear
He listened, tread of foot to catch, or clink
Of moving armour. Not a sound was heard,
Save the dull roaring of the distant fight,
And a near streamlet's ripple. Once again
His eyes he cleared; and, close beside him, saw,
Face down upon the earth, his enemy stretched;
And motionless as death. And, when he stooped,
Gently to turn him, lo! from out his mouth
Ran blood; the earth around him was dyed red!

Then to the streamlet nigh at hand he walked;
From out his eyes the clammy moisture washed;
With the cold crystal laved his burning brow,
Till from the wound no longer oozed the blood:

His hand then cleansed; and, with the hollowed palm,
Scooping the water, drank, and was refreshed.

Scarce had he ended, when the royal car
Drew nigh; and Jeroboam, with glad voice,
Upstanding, cried: “Behold! the noble steed
That was struck down, again is vigorous;
And all are fresh as stags at early morn,
When from their lair upspringing, at the cry
Of dogs, and hunters. Let us then away:
The sky is brightening fast; the car, erelong,
Will from the walls be seen; and haply then
By hosts we may be pressed.” To him the Mede;
“Let not that trouble thee; but follow now.”

That said, toward the fallen Zimri, at swift pace
Advancing, he a moment stood and gazed.
As he had left him, lay the caitiff still:
No limb had moved, nor seemed he to draw breath.
Down stooping then, Arbaces from him took
The gem-starred helm, and on his own head placed;
The lance caught up, and in the chariot flung:
Next, his own car approaching,—his great shield,
Spears, bow, and quiver, darts, and battle-axe,
Swiftly removed; and in the royal car
Orderly placed them: to the gorgeous seat,
Which erst had borne, but never more should bear
Assyria's haughty king,—with light bound then
Upspringing, caught the reins, and briefly thus.
“Haste, Jeroboam; to my chariot mount;
And let us drive together to the field:
For still the din of battle soundeth loud;
And much must yet be done.”

At once to earth
Leaped Jeroboam, and thus answered him.
“Behold, O Prince, thy horses droop the head,
And sorely wearied are: how then with these,
Yet fresh, and swift as eagles, may they go?
Delay not thou, but to the field make speed;
For much thou may'st be needed; while, meantime,
Thy steeds and car will I bring after thee.

Or rather—since the reins at once to guide,
And fight to wage, no safe or pleasant task,—
Shall I not with thee go; and leave behind
Thy chariot? for the horses, of themselves,
After brief rest, may, likely, seek the camp.”

To him the Mede: “Nay, nay, my friend; not so:
My steeds are swift, and strong; and through the fight
Nobly have borne me: they my comrades are;
And from my hands, like playful kids, do feed:
Nay, I do think they love me. Look thee now:
They turn their heads, as though thy words they knew,
And with their eyes besought me. No, my friend;
Not for the Assyrian would I leave my car,
And horses,—to be vaunted as their spoil.
And, recked I not of that, my faithful steeds
Shall not, by my consent, to some harsh man
Become the slaves: but, when their limbs are stiff
With age, and may no longer cheerfully
Their toil perform, shall in rich meadows roam,
Untasked to labor; save, perchance,—should heaven
So bless my love,—some rosy boy to bear,
In easy saunter, by his father's side,
Through our loved native pastures; all the while,
The beauteous mother leaning on my arm,
And the rich music of her eloquent voice,
With his soft prattle mingling. Grant me, gods,
Such bliss to taste; and all a monarch's pomp
Freely would I resign! But ah! I dream!
No love, no bliss domestic, may I hope,
Till weary months, perhaps even lingering years,
Shall have dragged on. Nay, haply, even then
May heaven such boon deny: untimely slain,
My bones may moulder in a foreign land;
And my beloved Hamutah never bless
These long-desiring arms. But, to the gods
My fate I render: be it as they will!
Meantime, not love, but battle summons me;
And I must haste. Then, Jeroboam, thou
My car and horses gently to the camp
Conduct: and fear not but some charioteer,
Erelong, the reins will guide; and leave my arm

Free for the combat.”

Scarcely had he ceased,
When, not an arrow-flight away, they saw
A car advancing rapidly. His spear
Arbaces seized, and stood prepared to cast:
But, as it nigher drew, the well known form
Of Zelek saw, an Arachosian chief.
He also with uplifted lance came on;
For, when the royal chariot, and the steeds,
And jewelled helmet of the king, he saw,—
Nought doubted he the king himself was there.
His arm already, eager for the throw,
Had he drawn backward, when the Mede's clear voice
Startled, and checked him.

“By Almighty Bel!”
Cried Zelek, and his lifted lance let drop:
“Arbaces? Hast thou, then, the tyrant slain,
That in his car thou ridest?”

“Not to me,
The despot hath been given,” replied the Mede;
“Nor know I whether he hath fallen, or 'scaped.
His chariot from the battle I pursued,
Deeming himself therein; but, in his place,
Found Zimri. Him I slew; and from him took
The diamond-flashing helmet, and the spear.
Yonder he lieth: of his other arms,
If thou would'st spoil him, they are thine. But, say,—
Why camest thou hither? and how goes the fight?”

To him then Zelek; “Nothing do I know,
More than thou knowëst; for, in hot pursuit
Of the king's chariot, close beneath the wall,
Beholding thee, I flew to aid the chase.
But, slow to thine my horses; and” . . . .

“Enough,”—
Him interrupting, cried the impatient Mede;
“No longer may I talk: my wearied steeds,
Like thine, need gentle guidance: but the field
Demands me instantly: mount thou my car,
And at slow pace return; thy charioteer,
Thine may bring after. Jeroboam, thus,
With me may go, and rule these steeds of fire,

Which, else, small leisure to my arm will give,
The bow, or spear, to wield.”

“So be it then,”
Zelek replied; and, swiftly on the earth
Alighting, to Arbaces' chariot climbed.
But Jeroboam to the royal car
Cheerfully sprang: the reins and scourge caught up,
And let the horses go. Exultingly,
On the storm-footed steeds, and gorgeous car,
The victor gazed; and burned to plunge in fight.

Not distant from the walls, as they sped on,
Before a gate awaiting, they beheld
A low, mean chariot. In dark mail was clad
The charioteer; but, on his head, a helm,
Of gleaming brass he wore. The face of him
Who at his left hand sat, 'neath helmet black,
And plumeless, was o'ershadowed. Neck to foot,
A sable mantle wrapped him. On his breast,
His head hung heavily; all strength seemed gone.

Even as Arbaces rapidly shot by,
The gate was opened, and the car went in.
They who within it rode, saw not the Mede,—
For toward the city were their faces turned;
Nor knew Arbaces, as they entered there,
That within spear-reach passed Assyria's king!
Loud clanged the closing gate; and to the fight
Flew on the heroic chief.

Zelek, meantime,
At slow pace, in the chariot of the Mede,
Drove after him: but to his charioteer
His own car left; that, after respite brief
For the tired horses, to the camp might he
Gently conduct them.

When now left alone,
Adad, the charioteer, the steeds to rest,
Awhile sat patiently; his thoughts intent
On the past conflict; on what yet might come;
And how himself might fare: but, suddenly,
On Zimri's costly arms, a greedy eye
He fastened; and to spoil him was resolved.

At once down leaping from the car, he ran;

And, stooping, raised him: from his shoulders, first,
The mantle of the king, with careful hand,
Removed, and on the earth beside him laid:
The glittering hawberk next began to unloose,—
When,—by the hiss of whip, and tramp of hoofs,
Aroused,—he raised his head; and, in dismay,
A youthful form in Zelek's car beheld,
Urging the wearied horses. Instantly
On flew he; and, still running, cried aloud,
His steeds and car demanding.

But, with lash,
Loud-stamping foot, and voice encouraging,
Dara the steeds drove on.

From out the car
By Zimri cast, long time had he lain stunned,
As in deep sleep: and when,—recovering sense,
And cautiously round gazing,—he beheld
The combat, and its issue,—still he lay,
Powerless to render aid: but when, at length,
Arbaces with the chariots twain had gone;
And in the car of Zelek now remained
Adad alone,—then 'gan his thoughts devise,
How of his chariot to despoil the foe;
And to the city bear it. But, alas!
Nor bow, nor spear, nor shield remained to him!
His sword alone, brief space away, he saw,
Crept on; and seized it. Yet, of what avail!
How, 'gainst a charioteer full armed, might he,
With that slight weapon, stand! Still, not the less,
Resolved he was to prove it. From the ground
Rising at once, with noiseless foot he walked;
And, as he went, within himself thus said:
“The panting of the horses must his ear
To my soft footsteps deafen. Could I reach,
Unseen, behind the car; one sudden spring,
One rapid downright blow, might finish all.
But, should he hear, or see me, ere I strike;
Or, should the stroke, if given, on his steel casque,
Or sword-proof mail alight, and harm him not,—
What waits me then? I know not: death, perchance!
Nehushta, thou would'st mourn me: and the king

A sigh might heave: but, 'mid the general doom
That overhangs us all,—the drowning fly
In the broad river, not less noticed sinks,
Than would my little torch of life go out.
Yet, come what may come, I the event will try.”

Within two spear-lengths of the chariot now
He stood; and with his eye the distance scanned,
The perilous leap intending,—when, at once,
Down to the earth sprang Adad; nor looked round;
But, bent on spoil, to the fallen Zimri ran.

Him, busied with his task, when Dara saw,
Joy filled his heart; into the car he leaped;
Seized rein and scourge; wheeled round; and the tired steeds
Sharply urged onward. But their stiffened limbs
With difficulty moved they: to the lash,
With groans they answered, and went reeling on.

Far swifter Adad flew; and to the car
Well nigh had reached,—when Dara, on the hooks
Flinging the reins, seized lance, turned round, and hurled.

Furiously running, Adad saw it not,
So sudden was the throw: his rapid foot
Seemed his own death to seek; for, at full speed,
Against the flying spear, himself flew on;
And in his throat, above the collar's rim,
The glittering point received. Right through it went;
The life-vein tore, and started out behind.
One sinking step he took; then drooped his head;
Drooped every limb; and, heavy as a clod,
His armour on the soft grass clanging dull,
Down fell he, dead.

One moment Dara gazed;
Then leaped to earth; drew from the corse his spear;
The radiant armour stripped; and in the car
Upflung it; mounted next; and, at slow pace,
No enemy fearing, toward the city moved.

Yet heavy was his soul; for of the king,
His loved Nehushta, the majestic queen,
And of that mighty empire passing by,
Darkly he pondered. Motionless, at last,
With cheek upon his palm reclined, he sat;

Nor the tired steeds urged more; for they had stayed,
And from the dewy grass, with outstretched tongue,
The grateful moisture gathered. “Let them rest,”
Within himself he said; “food, drink, and sleep,
Will all their strength bring back: but, when again
Shall mighty Nineveh her head uplift,
Queen of all nations! when will her fallen king
The worshipped of the earth again become!
And, for myself, how now shall I appear
Before him, if the battle he have 'scaped,
And in his eye severe excuse myself,
For that the priceless chariot, and the steeds,
To me entrusted, are the Median's spoil!
Ah! what hath not that frantic madman done!
Yet he himself hath drunk the bitterness
Of his own cup; by his own blow hath fallen!
And how, with more than life, can man atone!
Yet life, perchance, may linger in him yet:
And, if his wound I bind, and to his home
Can living bear him,—still might he be healed:
So should a strong arm for the king be saved;
And he would witness, even against his will,
In all I did; for, if in words he lie,
Yet would his wounds gainsay him.”

Thinking thus,
He started up, turned round, and backward looked.
Not far away, soon spying what he sought,—
He drew the rein, and toward the imaged corse
Drove anxiously: but when, beside it close,
He checked the steeds, lo! Zimri from the earth
His head uplifted; and, with haggard eye,
Looked in his face, and knew him.

From the car
Sprang Dara; leaned above him; on one knee
Sank hastily; and, with a tender hand,
His heavy head sustained. “Alas!” he said,
“Fate hath dealt hard with thee! But, tell me now,
Where is thy wound, that I may bind it up.”

Him Zimri answered not; but, with harsh voice,
Though feeble, and oft interrupted breath,
Thus questioned him: “Hast thou, then, slain the Mede,

That in his car thou ridest? Now, if so,
Lead me, that I may tread upon his neck.”

The last words gurgled in his throat: he ceased,
Choking with blood; and sank again to earth.

Still, with a tender hand, from off the ground,
Dara his head upheld: and, in a while,
When better he could listen, answered him.
“The Mede, alas! hath not in battle fallen;
Nor in his chariot ride I; but in that
Of Zelek; for his charioteer I slew;
And captured it. But, for the rebel chief,
Even in the chariot of Assyria's king,
Boasting his spoil, triumphantly rides he.”

As if a snake had stung him, at these words
Through Zimri ran quick shudder. Struggling hard,
His head he lifted, and with both hands raised
His body from the earth; but sank again;
And, with a slow and painful utterance, cried;
“Loosen my corslet,—let me draw free breath.
And take the armour quickly from my loins;
For the crushed steel sore galleth.”

Tenderly,
Dara the corslet slackened: from his loins
The battered mail released. Yet, still displeased,
Zimri, with peevish voice, by many a groan
Impeded, and a short and painful breath,
Ungrateful as he was, upbraided him.
“The easier task thou choosest: safer much,
The wound to tend, than to prevent the blow:
To look on, safer than to share the fight.
Why cam'st thou not to aid me, when thy spear
Me might have saved, and laid the rebel low?”

So he; yet Dara, at his bitter words,
Would not be angered; but thus, soothingly;
“Talk not, I pray thee, now; nor feed the wrath
That ever burns within thee; for, in truth,
So would'st thou bleed to death. If in the fight
I stood not by thee,—whose then was the blame,
That I lay stunned, and helpless, on the ground?
If for thy aid my spear was not at hand,—
Was mine the fault, that unto me remained

Nor spear, nor shield,—which in the chariot thou
Hadst borne away? Nor even was the sword
Within my reach; for, when thy friendly arm
Hurled me to earth, far from my hand it flew.
And would'st thou, feeble thus, and weaponless,
That, 'gainst the man most dreaded upon earth,
I, a slight youth, should stand? When the wild bull
Before the lion falls, would'st thou the hind
Should go against him? But of this no more!
Into the chariot let me help thee now;
That in the city we may refuge find,
Ere farther ill befall.”

So mildly he;
Nor Zimri answer made. To climb the car,
With careful hand, then Dara aided him:
Rose; took the reins; and, at the slowest pace
Of the worn steeds,—to Zimri heedful still,—
Drove toward the nearest gate.

As on they went,—
High over head, the clanging wings were heard
Of ravenous vultures; in the reddening dawn,
To their vast banquet hasting. The stern din
Of battle, like a distant cataract,
Unceasing roared: and, as before the gate,
Named of Semiramis, at length they paused,—
The clear song of a viewless lark was heard,
To the rose-tinted clouds upsoaring glad.

Meantime, the havoc and confusion dire
Of warring nations, to its height had reached.
For, when Sardanapalus,—terror-crushed,
At the on-coming of the dreaded Mede,—
Cowering, had left his chariot,—rose a cry:
“The king is slain! the gods are with our foes!
Fly to the city, and make fast the gates!”

Thousands, and tens of thousands, spread the cry:
O'er all the field it flew; and, like dry dust
Before the wind, the Assyrians turned, and fled.

From her high tower, with bitterness of soul,
The queen had marked the diamond-flaming helm,

Smitten to earth; and that dire cry had heard.
But, with intent eye gazing, soon again,
Up to the car she saw a warrior spring,—
The royal helmet wearing; on his back
The gorgeous crimson mantle of the king;
And doubted not—for, on the wall below,
Fires numerous dazzled sight,—that he it was,
From chance-fall risen unhurt. But, by a cloud
Of foes was he hemmed in; and, in brief time,
'Mid the great whirl was lost! With frantic voice,
Upon the soldiers, and the chiefs, she called,
Their king to rescue: with uplifted hands,
And anguished eyes, on Heaven called out to save.

But, 'mid the ceaseless thunders of the fight,
No man might hear her; and the gods, invoked,
No answer gave. Fate o'er the city lowered!

Vainly did each brave captain of the host
Upon the soldiers call, to face the foe!
Vainly themselves, defying all things, leaped
Amid the torrent of their enemies,
To conquer, or to fall!

His noble heart,
With shame, and grief, and anger, nigh to burst,—
Unceasingly did Salamenes cry,
The courage of his soldiers to inflame;
Their failing arms to nerve. From place to place,
Frantic he flew: now 'mid the foe dashed deep;
Now turned the flying back: exhorted now;
Now sued; now praised; now promised, and now shamed.
Nebaioth, too, and ardent Jerimoth,
Like running fires were seen about the field:
And, with their ponderous cars, Jehoshaphat,
And Michael, strove the dreadful rout to stay.
Thousands of valiant captains, too, whose fame
Sleeps with their ashes, nobly struggled then:
But the dread doom was fixed: in vain their toil;
Their blood in vain!

As, by the northern wall,
So, 'twixt the western, and the Tigris swift,

Hotly the conflict raged. Even as a storm,
Within a narrow mountain-pass pent up,
With maddest fury rages,—huge gnarled oaks
Uprooted fall: rock-pinnacles are rent;
And crashing, leaping, thunder down the steep,—
So, chariots, horse, and foot,—a mingled mass,
Victors, and vanquished,—rushed the human flood.
Thousands, borne down, beneath the chariot wheels,
And foot of man, and steed, were trod, and crushed:
Into the river thousands, shrieking loud,
Were irresistibly urged! In vain, in vain
They struggle! By the turbulent stream o'erwhelmed,
Down to the bottom sink they. Toward the bridge
Ran myriads: but the spearmen of the Medes,
A wood of lances pointed at their breasts,—
Passage denying: and the bowmen stood
By thousands, with the shaft upon the string,
Destruction threatening.

Dawned at length the day;
And, as the morning brightened, more and more
Stood out the terrible scene. No longer now
The Assyrians, from the city issuing, strove
To turn the hopeless fight. Loud cries went up,
“Shut fast the gates, ye men of Nineveh!
Shut fast the gates; or we shall perish all!”

But, who were they that might those portals close?
As up the caverns of the ocean-cliffs,
When a strong tempest hath upturned the deep,—
The billows, rapid as a steed in flight,
Drive roaring, shaking to their base the rocks,—
So furiously, through every wide-flung gate,
Chariots, and horse, and foot, by myriads rushed.
Horribly jammed together, in each pass,
Thousands were crushed; the ground was paved with dead.

Meantime, the citizens, and the armed men
Who had the fight escaped,—from the high walls
Hurled down upon the assailants spears, and stones:
And from each tower above the gates, poured forth
Thick flight of arrows, spears, and brazen darts.

But, as dawn reddened, on the northern wall
A distant cry was heard, “The king! the king!
The king of kings in his bright chariot comes;
And with him a great force!” Louder, more loud,
Came on the cry; and, in a trembling hope,
Eastward were myriads of wild faces turned.

The queen from her high tower gazed breathlessly;
Fell on her knees; her eyes, and trembling hands,
To heaven uplifted: on the merciful gods
For succour called; sprang up; and looked again.

Still, on the northern wall, more loud came on
The voice of multitudes—“The king! the king!”
And, as the shouts increased,—from out the gates,
With hope revived, again the Assyrians poured.

But, backward drew the Medes; and toward the east,
Gazed anxiously;—for, troubled grew their hearts;
And, man to man, with countenance blank, they said;
“Where is Arbaces? hath he fallen, then,
Before the king? and comes the conqueror
With a new host to snatch the victory?”

Still more and more upon the wall ran on
The exulting cry, “The king! the king doth come!”
And still from out the gates the Assyrians poured;
The Medes still backward drew. Yet, not a lance
On either side was cast, nor arrow shot,
Nor sword uplifted. On the northern plain,
Battle had ceased to breathe.

But, not the less,
Along the western wall, and by the bank
Of arrowy Tigris, raged the conflict still:
For, there the cry was heard not,—so much more
Resounded the dire roaring of the fight.
Still through the gates pressed in the fugitives;
Still were they slain, and trampled down; and still
The rolling flood with heaps of dead was gorged.

The queen herself, at length, beheld, and cried
Exultingly, “The king! the king! the king!
I see his chariot, and his milk-white steeds;
And the sun-flashing helmet on his head!
Shout, men of Nineveh! shout out aloud,

For your deliverance cometh!”

Like the ring
Of a clear-speaking clarion, was her voice
Heard on the battlement; and on the plain;
And up at once was sent a deafening roar
From the rejoicing myriads. On the wall,
And through the city, like a thunder-peal,
Long rolling, echoing, and re-echoing still,—
From point to point of the wide-arching heaven,
Ran on the glad acclaim.

His burning brow,
Bright inexpressibly, above earth's rim
Now 'gan the sun uplift; but not a hand,
And not a voice, to worship him was raised!
Upon the coming chariot, and the helm,
Fire flinging round, that almost might appear
Part of his blazing orb, all eyes were fixed.
The hot breath from their nostrils, and the smoke
Of the fast flying steeds, as in a mist,
The chariot wrapped: and the yet rising sun,
Fierce glory poured behind,—so that no eye,
Though straining eagerly, might clearly see.
But, like a meteor gliding on the earth,
Swiftly it came; and every moment grew,
Till to their gaze its bulk enormous seemed;
The horses like colossal statues, hewn
From marble, but with life instinct, appeared;
And he that rode, like to a giant of old,
Before the fountains of the deep broke up,
To overwhelm the earth.

Among themselves,
Then said the Assyrians; “Can this be the king?”
And others whispered; “Hath not Nimrod risen,
To save his city?” Many then cried out,
“The god! the god! Bel hath himself come down,
In his bright arms, and in his car of fire,
Our enemies to consume!”

Amazed, confused,
Silent, and motionless, the Medes beheld:
For now the chariot all alone advanced,

And who was he that singly dared come on,
In arms against a host?

Still more and more
The marvel grew; and louder, and more loud
The clamor on the walls, and on the plain.
And, as the chariot rapidly shot by,
And the king's car and horses well were seen,—
Gate after gate flew wide; and multitudes
Poured forth, to follow. Also, from the throng
Of the Assyrian legions, joyfully,
To meet it a great multitude went on;
Still crying as they went, “Long live the king!
Long live Sardanapalus, king of kings!”

But, in the void 'twixt both astonished hosts,
The storm-winged chariot drove: and, like the peal
Of the loud thunder, over all the din
Of acclamation, rose the mighty voice
Of him that therein rode. Within the car
Upstanding suddenly, toward the Medes he looked;
Lifted his spear, and cried triumphantly,
“Arbaces!”

When that name the Assyrians heard;
And when, turned on them now, that countenance dread,
Too well they saw,—ran through them freezing fear.
“The king is slain,” they cried, “and in his car
The rebel comes! Fly to the city, fly!”

The Medes cried also, “Fallen is the king!
His chariot, and his horses, and his arms,
Are taken for a spoil! Speed through the gates.”

As, by the breath of the autumnal storm,
The seared leaves of the forest numberless
In thick clouds are driven onward,—heap on heap,
Tossing and whirling, rapidly they fly,—
Even so, before the onset of their foes,
Throng upon throng, the Assyrians wildly fled.

But, on the wall, the horrible cry arose,
And in the city, “Haste, and close the gates!
Shut fast the gates! Shut out both foe and friend!
Else will the Medes be on us; and our wives
Be taken for their concubines; our sons

Become their slaves; and every agëd man,
And every child, will perish by the sword!
Fly, fly, and shut the gates!”

Then were men's hearts
By terror hardened; and, with one accord,
Down from the walls, and from the crowded streets,
Flew thousands to the work. The hinges groaned;
Heavily clashing, rang the brazen gates;
And, ere the foremost of the flying throng
The wall had neared,—bolt, bar, and massive chain,
Leaped to their place; and foe, and friend, alike,
Remorselessly shut out!

Rose then a cry
Of selfish gladness all along the wall,
And in the city: but, upon the plain,
Yells, prayers, and imprecations dread were heard.
Wildly the routed shrieked; and, with their arms,
Struck on the brazen barriers,—screaming out,
“Fling wide the gates, or we shall perish all!”

Some, cursing bitterly, their swords, or spears,
Against the battlement hurled; some, 'mid the foe,
In frenzy of despair, plunged—death to seek:
Myriads to east, or west, fled franticly:
But most, resolved not unavenged to die,
Fought bravely to the last; and, dying, sent
Their curse upon the city.

Till the sun
One fourth o'er heaven's broad road his race had sped,
Sounded the hurly of that mortal strife.
In vain Arbaces had lift up his voice,—
For his great heart was sorrowful,—to stay
The fury of the slaughter: vainly rang
The signal-trumpets,—in that uproar dire
Scarce heard, and unregarded,—for revenge
Maddened the Medes. At dawn had it been seen,—
And speedily through all the host made known,—
That, of the myriads who had crossed the bridge,
By their great leader spared; and who, to death,
For them, and for their holy cause, had vowed
Faithful to stand,—remained not now one man!

Vindictive then, and hard as stone, their hearts!
Nor even their god-like leader could assuage
The fierceness of their vengeance. To his voice,
And to the trumpet-summons, a deaf ear
Remorselessly they turned; and still slew on.

At length the foot was wearied, the arm weak,
The breath was spent: the gasping fugitive,
Voiceless, cried out no more; no more the shout
Of the pursuer sounded: steeds fell down,
Nor strove again to rise: the sword, and axe,
Too heavy for the arm, with toil were raised,
And, falling, wounded not: no strength remained
The spear to cast; no hand could draw the bow:
And, when the trumpet-signals, and the voice
Of their indignant chief,—still calling out
To stay the battle,—better could be heard,
Quickly the struggle ended.

Through the gates,—
Brief time elapsed,—the Assyrians feebly crept;
For friends within had opened stealthily;
Nor could their foes prevent.

The outworn Medes,
Beneath the shade of trees, or by the slope
Of Tigris' bank, or underneath the wall,—
Wherever standing when the tempest died,—
Sank on the earth at once,—for rest and sleep,
Greedy as famished wretch for savoury food.
Riders dismounted, and along the ground
Stretched their tired limbs: their horses bent the knee,
And rolled beside them: from their cars came down
The charioteers, and loosed the sinking steeds:
Then horse and man together pressed the earth.

The Assyrians also, who within the walls
Had safety found,—by like severe control
Subdued, sank helpless; sleep the sovereign good
Of life, esteeming all.

So, for long hours,
While the bright god of day his fiery beams
Poured down,—to life, and joy all things of earth
Actively stirring,—the sore wearied hosts,
Forgetful of their strife, slept heavily.

BOOK THE EIGHTEENTH.

Three times the glorious god of light, and life,
Along the sapphire pavement of the sky
Careering,—through the immense of space, his beams
Shot, inexpressibly bright; but, on the walls
Of Nineveh, and on the gory plain,
No radiance fell: a thick cloud mantled all,
As though, upon the ghastly piles of dead,
His pure eye might not look. Three days and nights,
By compact mutual, did the hostile hosts
From fight refrain; that, dust to dust, the slain
Might be to earth committed: and three days
Was lamentation heard upon the plain,
And in the fated city. The third night,
The work was finished; and both sides their dead
Had numbered. Of the Assyrians, had there fallen
Full five score thousand men; and, of the Medes,
Had one score thousand fallen. To the camp,
And to the city, then the hosts retired;
For now the truce was o'er; and, with the morn,
Grim war his hell-dogs might let loose anew.

On the king's soul, meantime, thick darkness hung
Alone he kept, and unto none would speak:
Neither unto his children, nor his queen,
Nor to his captains, nor his concubines.

On the fourth night, with Salamenes sat
The sorrowing queen; and, after conference brief,
To council called the captains.

With dark brows,
Lips close compressed, and sorrow-speaking eyes,

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At distance waiting, silently they stood
Before their pallid queen. With head bowed low,
Tears rolling down her cheeks, awhile she sat,
And words found none. The glistening drops, at length,
Hastily wiping off, she raised her face;
Her soul re-summoned to the task; and thus,
With quivering lip, and faltering utterance, spake.

“Ah! day of woe, unlooked for, and accurs'd!
A full blown flower this mighty city was,
The pride of all the earth! but a sharp wind
Hath withered it, and strown upon the ground
Its shrivelled leaves, that ne'er shall bloom again!
How set the fifth sun passed? Upon a host,
Mighty, and boastful; steeped in revelry
Unto the lips; a world-defying host;
Yea heaven-defying: on a powerful king,
In dazzling splendor throned; and, like a god,
Worshipped, and hymned, by voices numberless.
How rose next morn the sun? On that same host,
Awe-stricken, shrieking, calling on the walls
To shield them from a foe whom they had mocked,
Hooted, and hissed at! on a field of dead!
A hill of clay, which, but few hours before,
Had been all reckless mirth, and boastfulness!
On that same monarch, fallen like a tower,
Stricken, and blackened by the thunderbolt!
Oh Nineveh, proud queen! thy strength is shorn;
Thy glory is gone out! Thou art a grave
For living millions! bodies, soul-bereft!
Animate corpses! creatures that have lost
The life of life,—the noble front of man;
The daring spirit, and the action free,—
And now, with haggard cheek, and downcast eye,
Oh, grief and shame! like fettered bondsmen crawl,
Where once they stood supreme!”

She faltered; stopped;
Her hands in anguish clasped; again bowed down
Her beauteous face, and wept. But, rising soon,
“Enough of this,” she said; “if thought, or act,

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May yet give hope,—let not an hour be lost.
Speak then who can, and boldly. On you now,
Sage men, and valiant, hangs this tottering state;
On you alone: for, ah! the mind, and arm,
That should direct, and lead,—are, as the dead,
Powerless, and lost! Belovëd brother, thou,—
For yet hope shineth on thy distant view,
Though all at hand is darkness,—do thou, first,
Thy thougths propound; and, afterwards, each man,
Approving, or opposing, freely speak.”

She ceased; and Salamenes for reply
Addressed himself: but, with an angry look,
Even by that lofty presence ill controlled,—
Hastily stepping, Jerimoth stood forth;
Bowed low, and spake.

“Thy royal state, O queen!
All reverence claimeth: but thy virtues more
Subdue the hearts of men; for thy great soul
Might fill a hero's bosom; and the faults
And follies of thy sex, thou knowëst not.
Grief, double grief, then, sinks the brave man's heart,
To see thee, like to one of common mould,
Fall to despair; and melt away in tears,
Useless, and weak. Forgive me, gracious queen,
If I o'er bluntly speak: my heart is charged;
And must have vent, or burst. We have been weak,
Foolish, or heedless,—call it what you will,—
And have been beaten, vanquished utterly.
I grant the worst that any man can say:
Our dead alone, if called to life again,
Were army for a king: our wounded men,
If healed, might prop a falling nation up:
All, all I grant: but, what the remedy?
Could tears, though like the flooded Tigris poured,
Call to our ranks again one single sword
Of all that host thus lost? Could poor despair
Strengthen our arms; or make our enemy quail?
No! we were foolish,—let us now be wise;
That is our remedy: were heedless once,—

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Let us now watch like dragons, with the eye
Still open, even in sleep. Our ranks are mowed,
As with a scythe;—call then new harvest up.
Sprinkle but gold enough,—and armëd men
Will rise, like mist when the hot sun looks down.
Such is our remedy; nor long the time
Ere the full crop may ripen. Rather far
Than sit despairing,—would I strike a light,
A spark at least of hope, even now when gloom
Hangs heaviest on us. What if from our foe
We lesson take; and, as on us they fell,
Unlooked for,—so on them, even in their hour
Of sleep, and lapt in full security,
Pour out our myriads. We have rested now,—
From arms at least, have rested,—full four days;
And every soldier must for vengeance thirst.
Ere midnight, thrice a hundred thousand swords
Might rouse a tempest in yon slumbering camp:
And who may say, how many there with morn
Would waken? or whose banner highest fly? . . .

“Ye shake the head, and think my words are rash.
So be they then: yet better the worst freak
Of very madness,—be there daring in it,
And manly action,—than this grave-like gloom;
This damp, cold vapour, creeping through our veins,
And stagnating our blood. Rather I'd strike
My hand off, with one quick and resolute blow,
Than see it slowly rotting from my arm.
Such is my choice. I counsel watchfulness,
Prudence, and caution, great as you desire;
But action ever; war unto the last.
No downcast hearts, and corpse-like visages;
No shrinking back, as from a gaping grave;
But bold, free march, with firm foot, and strong arm,
And eyes that will see nought but victory.

“My thoughts are spoken: pardoned may I be,
My gracious queen, if over rough the shell
That wraps a wholesome kernel. On the earth
Breathes not the man who, more than I, would feel
Heart-pangs for every grief he caused to thee.

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Nor liveth he, who truer homage pays
To thy bright virtues, and right noble mind:
But, thee to see cast down, who all the rest
Should'st, with thy strength superior, well uphold,—
That keenly galleth: and, as men in pain,
Do sometimes strike at those whom best they love,—
So my sharp anguish, to my words, perchance,
Hath given a sting, which, where I least would wound,
Hath shot its venom.”

Bending as he stood,
Abashed, and grieved, and, with a faltering tongue,
Excuses pleading,—him the queen, well pleased,
Warmly thus answered.

“True, and valiant man!
In nought hast thou offended. A smooth word,
And supple knee, the veriest knave may bring:
Little costs that, when much 'tis meant to gain:
But thy rough, forthright speech, though causing smart,—
Like medicine by a kind physician given,
At thine own peril is administered,
And all for others' good. Take, then, my thanks,
Not censure: though, perchance, thy caustic words
Not all deserved by me. Tears, ay of blood,
Our fallen state might draw; nor shame the eyes
Of manliest weeper. Tears are no disgrace,
If from pure fountain flowing. 'Twas for all,
As for myself, I wept: for you, for him,
The wretched king,—for this great Nineveh,
Haughty, and valiant once, the queen of earth;
Now seeming like a place of sepulchre.
No foolish sorrow this: but, rise ye now
To strength, and manly action,—then no more
For woman's weakness shall ye censure me.”

So she; and o'er her countenance divine
Flashed a quick light, as when, amid the storm,
A sudden sunshine breaks. With look of love,
And high approval, Salamenes heard;
Promptly stepped forward; on one knee bent down;
Kissed her fair hand, and, rising, thus replied.

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“My queen, and sister, loved, and honored, both!
Thy tears not less become thee, than thy words,
Stirring to noblest deeds. The gods themselves,
Though to all ills impregnable, may yet
At sight of human misery drop a tear;
Nor dim their glory.—But, of this enough.
The time portentous our best counsel asks,
And noblest conduct: nor in action more,
Than in endurance. Who the broad, smooth path
Of victory walks,—may, to the right or left,
As ease or pleasure prompts, the straight road quit,
Yet safely reach the goal: but, with defeat
Still scowling in his face,—who the sharp ridge
Precipitous climbs, may, by one heedless step,
Be hurled to the abyss. Not now the hour
For daring act offensive 'gainst the foe,
But for calm prudence. When his strength is gone,
The man must rest, would he new vigour gain;
And his exhausted nature, with all means
That wisdom prompts, restore. Let then the sword,
For a brief season,—as perforce it must,—
Sleep in the scabbard. Our eternal walls
All siege defy: here safely may we rest,
And laugh the Mede to scorn: till, stronger grown,—
As soon we shall be—with glad hearts again
We may fling wide our gates; our banners wave;
Face to face meet the vaunting enemy,—
And once more bring him low. To every land,
Both far and near, that owns Assyria's rule,
Swift messengers already take their way,
Succour to gain: large are the offers made,—
Gold, honors, spoil,—to all who with the king
Their strength join instantly: but, unto them
Who hold aloof, or to the rebel give
Counsel, or aid,—are threatened, bonds, and shame,
Scourgings, and death, and utter overthrow.
Already, from the distant hills and plains,
Are many come; and unto every man
Hath treasure been given freely. Every day
Our strength will wax: our walls with food, and wine,

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For years are stored: while,—with long watching worn,
And of provision scant,—the enemy
Each day will weaker, and less numerous grow.
TIME for us fights; Time, whose resistless hand
Shall drain the deep seas, and shall crumble down
Earth's loftiest mountains,—Time for us doth fight.
But, slow, as irresistible, his course;
For his own hour he chooseth: nor may man,
Even for one moment, hasten on his step:
Though oft, insanely fretful, he waits not
The good that Time would bring; but, in its place,
Some smiling evil hugs. Be we, then, wise,
Patient, and prudent; and, our duties done,
To heaven commit the event.”

These words, to most,
Well pleasing were: nor better counsel found
The doubtful few. With aspects clouded still,
But hearts less downcast, the assembly then
Dissolved; and every captain his own home,
Deep pondering, sought.

Within Arbaces' tent,
In council also, sat the Median chiefs.
Rabsaris, and the Arabian king, all hot
For instant onset, urged to force the gates;
Or, with tall ladders, scale the battlement.
But them Arbaces, with majestic mien,
And words well weighed, and calm, to wiser thoughts
Subdued; thus summing up the long debate.

“Since, then, too rash, and hopeless, were the attempt
The walls to climb, or burst the brazen gates,—
What course have we, save patiently to 'bide,—
Like hunters watching till from out his lair
The wild beast issue. Every day will men
Flock to our banners; for our messengers
To north, and south, to east, and west make speed:
The long down-trodden nations will with joy
Our triumph learn; skake off their chains; and haste,
To speed the accursed tyrant's overthrow.
Why, then, with weak impatience should we fret?
The power that thrice five hundred years hath stood,

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Ye cannot hope, in one short month, to cast
From its broad base,—like to an infant's toy,
Which the first breath blows down. All greatest things
Do slowest move. The mountain rivulet runs,
Rapid and sparkling down; from stone to stone
Playfully bounding, like a sportive kid;
Then at the bottom rests,—a quiet pool:
But the great ocean's tide, as though asleep,
Moves ponderously, yet shakes the solid rock.
Be we the ocean, not the playful brook:
We would not scatter pebbles, as in sport,
But this great scourge of all the east cast down,—
The deep foundations of whose tyranny
Stand fixed, and mighty, as that ocean's cliffs.
Be patient, then, and wait the appointed hour;
For surely will it come. Of food, and wine,
Enough we have; nay, luxuries beside;
And, in our rich spoil, wealth to purchase more.
With nought to fear, and everything to hope,
Why should we, then, by poor impatience, risk
The certain, for the doubtful? Though the walls
Yet stand awhile,—the tyranny hath fallen,
That made them dreaded. All is in our reach:
But, snatch not ere the time, lest all be lost.”

He ended, and sat down: nor after him
Rose any man to speak; for with one voice,
His counsel was applauded. To their tents
Then all repaired; and, in profound repose,
Erelong the city, and the camp, were wrapped.

But, to Assyria's king, no slumber came:
In storm and darkness was his spirit plunged.
Four days alone and speechless had he sat;
By his great grief, as by a heavy flood,
Borne down, and stunned. But, on that night, brief speech
With Salamenes had he held; and learned—
Then first had learned—of that disastrous fight,
The dreadful whole. And, when the tale was told,

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How, even in their last extremity,—
Hearing that he, their king, afar was seen,
In his bright chariot coming to their aid,—
His routed host bravely had turned again,—
And how, when, in his stead, the dreadful Mede,
Fierce as a whirling rock, upon them broke,—
Their hearts again had sunk; and utter rout,
And slaughter, driven them shrieking to the gates,—
Then did the frantic king his garments rend;
Pluck from the roots his hair; and on the floor
Recklessly dash himself. Unsated still,
After a while, the number of the slain
Fearfully asked he; and, when he had heard,
Again like maniac raved. When all was told,
Alone once more he sat. Remorse, and shame,
Despair, and fury, like to savage beasts,
By turns his bosom tore. His robes again
He rent; again with both hands plucked his hair;
With glaring eyes, now, as a stone, stood fixed;
Now, stamped upon the floor; and to and fro,
Like a caged tiger, strode; and then, anon,
Bursting in tears, and sobbing like a child,
Covered his face, and sank upon the ground.

But, as the midnight came, by slow degrees,
The storm passed off; and, in its stead, remained
A deep and horrible darkness. All alone
In the vast banquet-hall—one single lamp
Casting sepulchral light—with marble face,
And staring eye, he sat. Beside his couch,
Upon the golden table, near him lay
A dagger, dunly gleaming. 'Twas of death
That now he pondered,—death by his own hand!
Before him, like a picture moving slow,
His whole past life appeared: his tyranny,
His joys, his splendor,—all a phantasm now:
And, in its place, the dread reality
Of the dark present,—the more dark to-come.
The past portrayed him throned, with kings around,
Submissly minist'ring; the future showed
A dungeon, chains and darkness; or, less dread,

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A public death, and a dishonored grave.
For his luxurious banquets, he beheld
The scant, unsavoured meal; for flattery, heard
The rebels' mocking laugh. On the bright past
He looked,—and saw himself most like a God;
On the drear future,—and beheld a worm.
What now had life become!—a curse, a thrall;
One blow would end it! Thinking thus, he raised
The dagger; and his throbbing bosom bared.

Why, moveless, stays his hand? why, at the last,
Drops on the table, corpse-like? A new pang
The first expels: how would his foes rejoice!
How would his children, and his stately queen,
He dying, be left desolate! perchance
Reviled, tasked, spit upon! the scorn of slaves!
Never! with life was hope: while yet one man
Should dare to stand in fight, would he resist.
Assyria still into the clouds should lift
Her crownëd head; and earth, as heretofore,
Should crouch beneath her feet.

Brief, airy dream!
Shorn of her strength, bowed down, and humbled now,
His cooler thought beheld the earthly queen:
And, on her faded glory as he looked,
The cause, the damning cause, himself, he saw;
His guilt, his folly, his blind arrogance,
The poison that had crept into her veins,
And choked her breath of life!

Then came again,
Stinging like adders newly waked to life,
The black thoughts that had slept; and his cold hand
Once more the dagger grasped. With glaring eye
Staring on vacancy; with his whole frame
Stiffened to stone, he sat; his lips compressed,
His nostrils spread, his face like marble fixed.
Silence intense was in that festive hall,
As in a sepulchre: the wretched king
Breathed not; and felt not: even his heart stood still.

At length the trance was broken: one deep sigh
Came forth; then dropped his head; his eye-lids closed;

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From his relaxing hand, with tinkling sound,
The dagger fell; and down his pallid cheeks
Large tear-drops trickled. But, as sense returned,
New thoughts arose, which, as they gathered strength,
Strange horror brought.

“'Twas in this very hall,”
He whispered, gazing fearfully around,
“The pale-browed prophet stood, and bade beware.
Ha! is it so? My arm refused to strike,
When death I wished for! Is it then decreed
That thus I shall not die, nor in this hour?
Five woes he threatened,—banquet, drenched with gore—
Flood—earthquake—fire—destruction! Fearfully
Hath one upon me fallen: what mean the rest?
They speak a future to me: and, perhance,
Chained to the years to come, I cannot die!
Abhorrëd thought! Is the air peopled, then,
With fleshless beings, that around us wait,
To unstring our nerves, and force us to our doom?
And he, perchance, he mocking at me stands,
Boneless, and bloodless; an invisible,
Yet powerful tyrant, to compel me on
To my fixed fate. There—on that very spot—
He stood, and threatened: there, with madman's hand,
I seized, and dashed him headlong!—I see now
The glaring eyes turned on me; the gaunt frame,
In the death-quiver!”

Shuddering, he shrank back:
An icy tremor through his body ran;
Quick came his breath; his heart beat audibly:
And lo! before him in the darkness stood
The Spirit of the seer! The form was dim;
The countenance was wan, and terrible.
The air grew cold around the king: his locks
Stiffened; his joints were strengthless; his jaw fell;
His eye-balls from their sockets seemed to burst.

To heaven the phantom raised its arm, and spake.
The voice was like the moan of wintry wind
At midnight, when, upon the mountain's top,

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It sweeps the lonely cedar.

“Ruthless king!
Thy realm is passing from thee, like a dream;
Thy glory, like a cloud! Thy countenance,—
Fair to the eye of woman,—shall be black,
And loathsome: and the voice that they have loved,
Shall never more be heard! Upon thy throne,
Thine enemy shall sit; and on his head
Thy crown shall wear. But, as for thee, behold,
Thy kingdom is the pit! Thy name shall be
A mockery, and a hissing among men!
The banquet prophesied, hath come to pass:
Flood—earthquake—fire—destruction, are at hand!

“King of Assyria! ponder on thy doom;
And, ere too late, turn from thy wickedness.
So, though thy kingdom be for ever lost,
Even yet thy soul may live!”

Thus having said,
The vision looked upon him, and was gone.

Amazed, and horrified, the king arose:
His hair stood up; from head to foot he quaked.

But, in brief time, he bade magicians come;
And told them what had been. Till night was spent,
In low talk sat they; nor, till high in heaven
Stood the bright sun, did he in feverish sleep
His trouble lose.

Deeper and deeper fell
The darkness on his soul: the song, or harp,
For days was heard not in his lonely halls:
And not a man before him dared to come,—
So stern his countenance, and terrible.

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BOOK THE NINETEENTH.

On the next morrow, to the spacious plain
South of the city, Salamenes led
The Assyrian army,—for no foe was there,—
And numbered them. By thousands they passed on.
Four times a hundred thousand was their strength.

To every soldier then, a piece of gold,
Food plentiful, and generous wines, were given,
Their hearts to gladden. In her chariot rode
The queen among them; to the captains spake,
And to the soldiers,—all encouraging,
That they cried out aloud, “Long live the queen!
Long live the king! The king shall triumph yet;
And put his enemies beneath his feet!”

That day, to aid them, many thousands came;
Horsemen, and charioteers, and men on foot;
For the king's gold allured them. With the first,
Came Gilgath, a huge giant! Cubits six
His stature was; his spear ten cubits long.
Loudly he boasted, saying, “Let the Medes
Send forth their champion,—face to face, 'gainst me,
In single fight to stand: and let the event
Determine, if the city shall be theirs,
Or they our bondslaves be.”

The boaster charmed
And, of the soldiers, many cried aloud,
Admiring, and approving. But all mute
The captains stood; for inwardly they feared

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Lest that Arbaces should himself come forth,
In answer to the challenge. As the eve
Drew on, into the city all retired;
And lighter grew the heart of every man.

On that same day, their numbers also told
The Medes,—eight hundred thousand fighting men.
And, when it was proclaimed, a joyful shout
From all the host went up. To them, not less,
On that same morning came, of horse, and foot,
And chariots, not a few: and, with one voice,
The army sang; “Behold, the mighty one
Shall be cast down, and shall oppress no more!
Then every man 'neath his own vine shall sit;
Of his own fig-tree eat: our sons no more
Shall for their slaves be taken; nor our wives,
And beauteous daughters, for their concubines.”

Within the blazing chariot of the king,
Drawn by the wind-swift steeds, amid them all
Arbaces rode: and, as he passed along,
Each soldier bared the head, and cried aloud,
“Long live Arbaces! On his fathers' throne
Long may he sit! for he the oppressor hath
From his high place struck down! Long live the king!”

Then, after they had sacrificed,—the host,
Orb within orb, close standing,—in the midst
Belesis knelt, and prayed. Like his, at once
All knees were bent; all heads bowed reverently.

But, when they had arisen, and all again
In silence stood,—he took the golden crown,
Burning with gems, which, on his haughty brow,
Assyria's lord had worn; and on the head
Of their great leader placing it, cried out,
“King of the Medes, long may Arbaces live!”
But when, with eager voice, the multitude
His words had echoed, louder still he cried,
“Long live Arbaces, KING OF KINGS long live!”

Rose then such shouts exultant, that all air,
From earth to cloud-vault quivered: yet again,
Again, again, like thunder-peals they rolled
Above the city; and great wonder grew.

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But, from his head Arbaces took the crown;
The helm replaced; and, reverently, thus;
“Let us not boast before the time be come:
The race not always to the swift is given,
Nor battle to the strong. When mightier far
The enemy than we,—upon them came
Total defeat: let us not glory, then,
Lest that our pride be humbled. In God's hand
The fate of nations is; before His breath,
Armies are but as dust.”

As thus he spake,
Far off a trumpet sounded; and, erelong,
Appeared a herald. When, at length, he stood
In presence of Arbaces, and the chiefs,
A challenge to the bravest of the host
Out-spake he,—face to face, in single fight,
Gilgath to meet; “And let the event decide,
If the eternal city shall be yours,
Or ye our bondslaves be.”

With a great laugh,
The boast was answered. “To Assyria's king,
Thus, from Arbaces, say: ‘If, by the gods,
By earth, and sea, and by the realms beneath,
In presence of his people he will swear,
That on the issue of this fight shall rest
Assyria's doom, and ours,—then let him name
The day, the place of combat; and be sure
Our champion shall go forth.’ But idle this:
Thy monarch nought of such poor message knows;
Nor in his name thou speakest. Get thee back;
And the huge boaster tell, if over hot
His valour,—when the battle shall awake,
Soon may he cool it.”

With this taunt, retired
The angry herald; and the sound of mirth
Far on pursued him. Till the evening closed,
The army at their temperate feast remained;
Then kindled watch-fires, and retired to rest.

But, in his tent, alone, in solemn mood,
Arbaces sat; and, of the mighty things

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Which had been; of the greater yet to be,
Earnestly pondered. Gentle thoughts, at last,
Stirring within him, happier vision came:
Home, mother, sister,—and, bright crown of all,
His own beloved Hamutah. At that hour
Of cool breeze and sweet perfume, well he knew
That in her garden 'twas her wont to walk,
Pensively musing. Even as rose the thought,
Distinct as in the life, he saw her there:
That face soul-beaming; grandly beautiful;
That form majestic, with ineffable grace,
Like a deep, gentle river, silently,
Serenely gliding on.

Anon, she stops;
Across her full-orbed bosom folds her arms,
As if embracing. Of whom thinks she, then?
Perchance of him,—beside what river's bank,
On what rich plain, or near what city, now,
With his rejoicing army wending home
From year of hateful service,—he lies camped.
Alas! she knows not that the gentle Peace
By horrid War is slain! that months, nay years,
May drag along, ere to his heart once more
May he compress her!

But again she moves;
And now with lighter step; she clasps her hands;
Looks up toward heaven; speaks low, and lovingly.

Her voice was music; fragrance round her breathed;
Her presence was a sunlight. O'er his soul,
Came balmy softness, such as gentle rain
Bringeth at eve in spring time, when the earth
Is parched, and every herb and flower doth droop.

Then from his harp, with tender touch, he drew
Harmonious breathings; and, with mellow voice,
Subdued and plaintive, sang. The song was one
That she well loved; and oft, in summer eve
Of happier days, had listed. As he sang,
His heart within him melted; and his eyes
With tears were filled. Then lay he down, and slept;
And, in his dreams, through groves, and by the banks

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Of whispering brooks, with her walked lovingly;
And thought no more of battles, or of thrones,
Till from his slumber, by the trumpet's blare,
Awakened, and the voice of multitudes,
That to the rising sun their matins hymned.

Then swiftly from the tent he issued forth;
And to the glorious light bowed down, and prayed.
But, ere he ceased, beneath thick clouds again
The sun was hidden; and all day shone not.
Five days, beneath black clouds, from mortal sight
His splendor had been veiled: and gloomy thoughts
In minds of many wakened; for, as yet,
The season of the rains was not at hand.

But, when some days had passed, and still the sun
Was hidden,—more and more the minds of men
Distempered grew. Then, when Arbaces heard
How they were troubled,—with a smiling face,
He went among them; and with cheering words
Their hearts revived. But to his tent he called
The captains; and thus spake.

“This idle time
Unwholesome thoughts engendereth. Though the god
From us hath veiled his glory,—to our foe
As little hath he shown it: wherefore, then,
To us more evil omen? Yet not thus
Thinks the rude soldier. Would the enemy
Blow out his trumpets, and his banners shake,
Inviting battle,—of but small account
Would our rough warriors deem it, that the sun
Scorched not their faces. But, of this no hope:
Behind the shelter of their walls, long time
Will they remain: and here must we abide,
Their pleasure waiting. Then, to cheer the minds
Of those down-cast, who, else, may to the rest
Become infectious,—let it be proclaimed
That, every day of this enforcëd peace,
Throughout the camp shall sports and pastimes be;
Trials of strength, and swiftness, both on foot,
And in the race of chariots. Nor shall we,
The captains, and the leaders, hold aloof.”

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These words pleased all; and heralds instantly
Rode forth, and made proclaim.

That day again
An insolent challenge from the giant came:
And, as before, was mocked at. But, at once,
Arbaces, his own heralds summoning,
Thus, in the presence of his captains, spake.
“Go ye, and stand before Assyria's king;
Before his rulers, and his men of war;
And say aloud. ‘Twice hath a boaster sent,
Daring our bravest, in the mortal fight,
Singly to meet him; thereby to decide,
If the eternal city shall be ours,
Or we your bondslaves be. If thou, O king,
And ye, the lords, and rulers of the land,
Will, in the presence of your people, swear
A solemn oath, by earth, and sea, and sky,
By gods above, and the dark realms below,—
Upon the issue of this fight to rest
Your doom, and ours,—then name the day, the place,
And send your champion forth; nor fearful be
Lest ours may shun him. If ye like not this,
Then to the field with all your strength come forth,
To try the battle; and thus surer prove,
Whether to you the mastery belongs,
Or whether unto us.’”

Thus having said,
Upon his captains calmly he looked round,
Their voice awaiting. Great was their applause.
The heralds then bowed down; and took their way.

But when, in presence of Assyria's queen,—
With lords, and chiefs, in sudden council met,—
Boldly the heralds spake—in every breast,
Wrath, and amazement rose. From her rich throne
Upstarting—with a countenance of flame,
Fearful, yet beauteous; fire from out her eyes,
As from two sapphires kindled by the sun,
Intensely flashing,—the majestic queen,—
Like angry goddess,—with inflated chest,
And arm of rose-tinged ivory out-stretched,

117

Proudly thus made reply.

“Begone, old men!
Reverend in years,—but, in your look, and tone,
And bold, bad message, most irreverent!
Assyria's king obeys not yet the call
Of impious rebels. But, erelong, be sure,—
For them perchance too soon,—the avenging hand
Will be put forth, and crush them in the dust!
Bid your imperious masters not o'er-loud
To vent their arrogance; for still the gods
Are over all things; and will vindicate,
Though late, the insulted majesty of kings.
Begone! nor with more insolence taint the air!”

The heralds, as before an angry god,
Rather than aught of human mould,—with awe
Stood trembling, and were mute. The voice, though sweet
As richest stop of organ, like a burst
Of thunder made their very hearts to quake.
A moment thus they stood; nor dared look up,—
So dread the aspect of that beauteous brow,
So withering the lightning of that eye,—
Then turned, and went their way. Down sank at once
The o'er-wrought queen; and, covering up her face,
Wept bitterly.

That spectacle, unmoved,
Who might behold? The discontented brow,
The muttering lip, were seen; yet none, at first,
His thoughts dared speak: till Jerimoth, at length,
His pent-up anger scorning all control,
Thus boldly questioned.

“Will the king, then, see
His queen insulted, and his nobles mocked,
And send no chastisement? Where slumbereth he?
And wherefore, in this moment perilous,
And shameful, from his people doth he hide?”

To him, with gentle tone, Nebaioth spake,
Admonishing; and Salamenes placed
His hand upon the fiery warrior's breast,
Patience imploring. But his dangerous speech

118

The queen had heard; and, while her eyes dropped tears,
Turned, and thus spake.

“Ye murmur that the king
Cometh not forth among you: would he might!
Not now in feasting, laughter, dance, and song,
He revelleth: but, with a mighty grief
Borne down, and with thick darkness round him cast,
Looks like a body which the soul hath left,
While life yet lingereth. Have ye never heard
That, sometimes, in the living human form,
Demons have entered; and the whole man ruled
By their own hellish will? Was not that king
Of Israel, Saul, by Foul Things thus possessed;
And to their bidding bowed? Alas! Alas!
Even so, I fear me, is Assyria's king
By demons entered; for his wretchedness
Passeth belief: and would to tears more move,
Could ye behold him, than to words of wrath.
Alone he dwelleth, and no face will see,
Nor voice will listen: neither food, nor drink,
For two days hath he tasted: all distraught
His looks are; and his hue as of a corpse.
But, as to Saul of old did David go,
And with sweet music from his spirit drive
The Things of darkness,—so, unto the king,
Do thou, young Dara, speed. Without the door,
Take thou thy place; and, gently, from the harp,
Draw forth soft harmony. If not dismissed,
Then enter; and, with louder symphony,
Prelude a strain of battle. Should he stir,
Nor yet command thee go,—then, raise thy voice,
And pour a song heroic, of the deeds
Of Ninus; or of Nimrod; or of her,
The warrior-queen, Semiramis: perchance,
So may the gloomy demon from his heart
Be chased; and with new vigour may he rise.”

Thus having spoken, to the lords she bowed,
The council ending.

Bearing in his hand

119

A golden lyre, then Dara to the door
Of the king's chamber went: but, issuing thence,
Beheld Azubah. In one hand, she held
A dulcimer; and, with the other, stanched
Fast flowing tears.

“Oh! go not in,” she said:
“Wroth that from bonds I had my father loosed,
Me with most harsh rebuke hath he dismissed;
And no man's face will see.”

Then Dara knew
His errand vain; and mournfully retired.

On the next morning also, and each morn,
Gilgath his boastful challenge sent again;
And still with words more arrogant: for now,
When he beheld that no man answered him,
So swelled his pride that, singly, for them all,
He deemed himself sufficient.

Every day,
Arbaces also, with his cars and horse,
Nigh to the city rode; and bade blow out
The trumpets; and the heralds cry aloud:
“When will the king come forth? why tarrieth he
Why comes he not to battle?”

Gilgath then,
When he beheld them, with enormous stride,
Upon the battlement stalked to and fro;
Shaking his spear, uplifting high his shield,
And bellowing forth defiance. But, with mocks
Still was he answered.

To the Medes, each day,
Came thousands; chariots, horse, and infantry:
But, to the city, tens of thousands went:
For gold to every man was freely given;
And a rich spoil was promised.

All this time,
Through sea of ponderous cloud, the god of light
Gloomily travelled; nor his getting-up,
Nor his down-setting, was beheld at all:
So that in both the hosts was marvel great,
And fearful looking forth for what should come.

120

All this time, also, on Assyria's king
Hung a thick darkness: neither with his queen,
Nor with his children, nor his concubines,
Nor with his captains spake he; but alone
With wizards, and astrologers conferred.

But, when the day of the new moon had come,
To the south plain once more the Assyrian host
Went forth; and Salamenes numbered them.
Six times a hundred thousand was their strength.

Then were their hearts made glad: and, when she saw
That from his torpor still the king stirred not,
The queen to council summoned the great chiefs,
And battle was resolved on.

That same day,
His legions also did Arbaces sum.
Eight hundred, three score thousand fighting men,
Their number was: and, for the combat, all
Ardently thirsted. Then, when eve drew nigh,
Unto his tent the captains he convened,
And thus began.

“The men, ye see, are hot
For conflict; but our enemies come not forth.
How then may they be stirred? Still, day by day,
Thousands to us; but unto them do come,—
So boast they,—tens of thousands; and their strength
Must now be great: yet in their walls they lie
Secure, and will not meet us. Nor can we
Greatly prevent the aid that reaches them:
For, if to round the walls, and bar access,
Our armies we divide,—soon may they fall
With 'vantage on us; and some triumph win.”

Belesis then, uprising, thus replied.

“Have thou no fear, Arbaces: in brief time,
Full surely will they issue. Now some days
Have passed, since they with patience 'gan receive
Our daring to come forth. When they were weak,
Quickly incensed, too, were they. Without wrath,
The taunt to bear, gives proof of conscious strength.
Erelong, then, look to see the gates wide flung;
And streaming banners pour upon the plain,—

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Though, by the help of God, in humbler show
Doomed to return. So, patiently await.”

He scarce had ceased, when, rising hastily,
The Arabian king came forward, and thus spake.

“O'er hot ye oft have deemed me; more inclined
By strength to overthrow, than by device
Trip up,—and I confess ye judge me right:
And, rather than thus linger here,—like dogs
Around a fox's hole close crouched, to wait
His coming out,—would I beat down the gates,
If that might be; or, with long ladders, try
The walls to climb. But, hear me patiently;
And ye shall find that, when occasion fits,
I can be subtle also. What if now,
Instead of bursting, I a way devise,
By stealth to ope yon gates, and let you in? . . .

“Ye smile;—but, listen first; and, afterwards,
Perchance ye still may smile; yet not as now,
But with the hope of swift, and sure success.
Hear then my thoughts; not on the heat struck out;
But, during days and nights, well wrought and shaped.

“Each day into the city thousands pass,—
Freely received, no doubt, and questioned not.
Let, then, a hundred of our choicest men,—
By night departing,—at some eastern gate,
With dawn present themselves;—though not at once,
Nor in one body,—but in separate groups,
As chance-met strangers. They will be received;
Welcomed as friends; paid, fed, with arms equipped;
And fitly lodged. Nigh on the mid-hour, then,
Of the first night,—when all the city sleeps,—
Let each man, walking silently and slow,
As if no thing of moment called him forth,
Hie toward the gate of Nisroch. When in force
Assembled there,—but in deep silence still,—
Let them the watchers seize;—and, under pain
Of death immediate, bid wide open fling.

Meantime, be ready, close without the gate,
In darkness couched, a band of chosen men,
Well armed, and numerous, who may pass within.

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That done,—three torches, waving in a line
Upon the battlement, might signal be
For all our host,—massed opposite each gate,—
At swiftest to advance: but, first, of horse
Some thousands, who, awaiting not far off,
May rush within; then, skirting close the wall,
East, west, fly on; and every other gate
That fronts the camp, throw open. Like a flood,
Thus may we altogether on them burst;
And with an utter ruin overwhelm.
If, afterwards, we should the city keep;
With fire destroy; or raze unto the ground;
Be food for later thought.”

While thus he spake,—
With faces kindling, and bright flashing eyes,
From man to man the eager captains looked;
Each seeking if, by them, as by himself,
The scheme was relished. When the monarch ceased,
A burst of warm applause rose instantly;
And every man, upstarting from his seat,
Essayed to speak. All, then, with one accord,
Their places quitting, mingled in the midst;
Thronging, and crossing, as, from man to man,
With lifted voice, and gesture vehement,
Sharply they moved,—that, suddenly, the tent,
Rather like scene for some wild dance appeared,—
Mazy and intricate,—than ordered place
For solemn council.

One alone stood still,
Nor spake at all,—Arbaces: yet his eye,
And features eloquent, not less delight
Told visibly, than did the loudest tongue.
Nor spake Belesis much: but, when the din
In part had settled, he his hand uplift,
Bespeaking silence: then, when to their seats
All had returned,—to Abdolonimus, first,
Thus he began.

“How well thy scheme is liked,
Needs not to tell thee; for the general voice
Loudly proclaims it. Aspect bright and fair

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Truly it hath; and such its quality,
That, once propounded, marvel it appears
To every man, that he so rich a gem,
Open and clear to view, should have o'erlooked.
Yet, 'twixt the first conception of an act,
And its full execution, oft arise
Unthought-of difficulties, which, at length,
Blast the fair promise. Not to damp your zeal,
Thus speak I; but to teach a wary tread
On even the smoothest path; lest pitfalls lurk,
Unseen, undreamed of. When the shaft is shot,
Ye cannot stop it midway in its flight,
Or turn aside—though seeing it must pierce
The heart of wife, or child. Then, ere we draw—
For still in darkness must frail mortals shoot,
When at the future aiming—let all eyes,
At utmost stretch of vision, forward look,
To spy if, 'twixt the arrow, and the mark,
Stand aught to arrest it, or to turn aside.
So, with calm mind, let every man well scan
The object, and the means: and, when our best
In thought, and act, we faithfully have done,
With Heaven be left the event. To me, I own,
Right fair, and hopeful doth, at present, seem
The stratagem,—so, in the acting on't,
Be care, and honesty. In this sole thing,
Aught new do I advise. One hour ere dawn,
Rather than midnight,—so to me appears,—
Were for our action best. The watchers then
Will be outworn, and sleepy; and their ears
Less quick to catch the sound of hoof and wheel.
Nor, at that hour, will less the amazement be,
And terror in the city; while, for us,
The coming light a powerful aid will lend;
And guide us on to victory.”

In few words,
The Arabian king, approving, made reply:
Then, when he saw that no man stirred to speak,
Arbaces rose, and said: “Belesis, thou
My thoughts hast uttered. Till the morrow's eve,

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Let each man on this purpose ponder well:
Then, when we meet again, if any doubt
Perplex his mind; or any thought have risen,
Pregnant with promise,—let him freely speak.
To thee, brave Abdolonimus, the thanks
Of all are due; and warmly are they given,
Be what may be the event: for wisest thoughts,
The gods not favoring, may bad issue bring,
Even as the foolish.”

To their tents then went
The captains; flushed with hope; yet, not the less,
Deeply forecasting of the means, and end.

At eve of the next day, when they had met;
And no man aught of counsel new proposed,—
Ten captains over hundreds were called in;
And thus Arbaces spake.

“Go now; and choose,
Each from the hundred over which he rules,
Ten valiant men; and worthiest of your trust.
Discreet, as valiant, look you that they be,
Else evil may arise. Now take your way:
And, when the men are chosen, bring them here,
That we may speak with them.”

The captains bowed,
And straight retired. In silence sat the chiefs,—
As men, on some great thing resolved, are wont:
Nor seemed it, for a time, that any man
Would break the stillness. But Arbaces soon
Arose; and bade to place before the chiefs,
Dried fruits, and wine; and, like a courteous host,
From one to the other went,—in light discourse
Mingling, by turns, with all.

But when, at length,
The captains, with the hundred chosen men,
Were ready at the door, they all went forth,—
For room enough within the tent was not:
And, when the men, in one compact array,
Attentive stood, then first the Arabian king,—
Not claiming precedence, but honored so,
Both by Arbaces, and the general voice,—

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To their astonished ears, the bold design,
At large unfolded: all the action's course,
Step after step, went o'er,—repeating oft,
And often questioning, that he might know
If all, by all, were rightly understood.

Then, when it seemed that every man well knew;
He cheered them to their task; and bade to think
Of honors, and rewards awaiting them,
That glorious thing achieved. In every face,
Save one, shone hope and gladness: and when, last,
He questioned them, if, with a willing mind,
They girt them to the enterprise,—“We do,”
As from one voice, came forth the prompt reply.

Arbaces then, with some few parting words,
Dismissed them: and the leaders to their tents,
With joyful hearts, retired.

When midnight came,—
All warlike show laid by; in humble guise
Of hunters, or of husbandmen, arrayed;
The hundred chosen men,—with wine, and food,
Refreshed and strong, and full of hope,—set forth.

Far eastward from the city having gone,
Awhile they rested: but, when dawn was nigh,
In separate groups, as each to the other strange,
They parted wide. Welcomed, and questioned not,
Through different eastern gates, erelong, all passed.

But, like a snake amid fair flowers concealed,
Among these valiant men one traitor lurked.
When, for his falsehood, and his treachery,
Stripped of his arms, and driven from out the camp,
With scorn and hissing,—Nahor, filled with rage
And rancour 'gainst the Mede, and Azareel,
Resolved a deep revenge. Their blood alone
His malice could appease. By open stroke,
Not to be dared,—yet, in some secret way,
Vengeance might reach them. Reckless at what cost
This bad end might be gained,—to mean disguise
His pride he stooped: his dark luxuriant locks
First shore he off: his beard, of lordly trim,
To peasant's fashion cut: his eye-brows plucked:

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His fair complexion, to a dingy hue,
With villanous mixture, stained: then, in the garb
Of husbandman, and under borrowed name,
Returned, and joined the host. His size, and strength,
And bold demeanour, marked him out as one
Well fitted for all daring enterprise:
And, therefore, of the hundred chosen men,
Among the first was he.

Before the tent,
When with the rest he stood; and saw come forth
The two whom on the earth he hated most,—
Arbaces, and the faithful Azareel,—
Heart-sickness came upon him: with teeth set,
And hands hard clenched, he stood—longing to strike.

But, when the Arabian king, the whole design
Had well unfolded,—like the sudden flash
Of lightning in the darkness, through his soul
Shot gleams of coming vengeance. What recked he,
Though with the Medes he stood, if, unto them,
Or to their foe, should fall the victory?
He for himself lived solely: and, to him,
The cup of life no drop so sweet could give,
As satisfied revenge. What though to death,
His noble comrades in that bold design,
He must give up;—what though the general host,
His countrymen, his friends, his sworn allies,
Might fall by myriads,—yet Arbaces, too,
Who had disgraced him; Azareel, who held
The seat from which himself had been cast down,
Must also feel the blow;—and, them to crush,
Through blood of thousands gladly had he trod,
As through a summer-brook.

Yet not alone
Revenge invited him: fame, honor, power,
And riches, by the king to be bestowed,
A fit reward for that great treachery,—
He saw awaiting him. When, therefore, he
The gate had passed,—for singly he went in,—
Earnestly prayed he that, without delay,
Into the presence of Assyria's king

127

Might he be led,—things dark and perilous
To unfold before him. That bold prayer refused,
To Salamenes forthwith hasted he:
Him found a willing listener: and at once,—
In the munificence of the king of kings,
For recompense humbly trusting,—the whole scheme,
From first to last revealed.

Before the queen,—
A loathed pollution,—was the traitor brought.
Again the tale was told: a council prompt
Was summoned: messengers to every chief
In haste dismissed: all preparation made,
The enemy in his own toils to take:
Then, when they everything had ordered well,—
The queen, and Salamenes,—hoping now,
By these great tidings, from his lethargy
The downcast king to rouse,—his chamber sought.

Alone, in melancholy mood, sat he:
His robes disordered; his once shining locks
Of curling gold, all dull and drooping now:
His countenance, once radiant as the blush
Of summer's dawn,—now wan, cadaverous,
Like his who in the dungeon's atmosphere
Long years has breathed: so was the mighty fallen!

When it was told him that, with matters deep,
Strange and portentous, charged,—the queen herself,
With Salamenes, instant audience sued,—
Wonder, and fear, shame, and vexation, mixed,
Lighted with hectic flush his pallid cheek;
And kindled his dull eye. Irresolute,
Awhile he sat, and spake not: then the sign
Permissive made; and, with contracted brow,
And look of stern impatience, their approach
Sullenly waited.

When the haggard king
She first beheld,—shocked by his ghastly look,
The queen stood speechless: but, recovering soon,
Went, kissed his hand, and said. “How fares my lord?
Thy look is sad, and sickly. Wherefore thus,
In solitude, and grief, thy health consume?

128

The past is past: the future calls thee now:
Action invites thee forth: thy people cry,
‘Where is the king? and wherefore, in this strait,
Doth he abandon us?’ Then, my dread lord,
Be once again thyself: let cowards lie
Despairing, when o'erthrown; but let the brave,
Against the shock of fate stand manfully;
And, though successless, yet deserve success.
Fate holds a balance, wherein doom of man,
For good, or ill, is weighed: as sways the beam,
There is a moment,—be it seized aright,—
When man his own hand in the scale may throw;
And bring down good. King of Assyria, now,
For thee that moment is. This night the foe
Will gather by the wall; in hope, at dawn,
The gates to enter. All their plan is known
The lions will be taken in a net;
The cunning men in their own trap be caught:
And, if the king but rise to aid us now,
Haply may ne'er escape.”

While thus she spake,
The frown that had the monarch's face obscured,—
Like a thick cloud when 'gins the sun to shine,
To cheerful radiance changed. His listless limbs,
With sudden strength seemed filled; his eyes grew bright;
His chest expanded; and deep breath he drew,
Like one who for the race prepares himself.
Starting from off the couch, aloud he said,
And raised his hands toward heaven, “Then once again
Will I go forth to battle: and, oh gods!
Whoe'er ye be, that rule man's destiny,—
Give me to trample down that foe accursed;
And hecatombs shall on your altars lie;
And with their fragrant smoke your thrones enfold,
As clouds the mountain's top! But now, with speed,
Do thou, my brother, and best counsellor,
This thing in full declare: what wile the foe
Hath plotted; and what sager counterstroke
Ye have to crush him.”

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Salamenes then,—
The king permitting,—to his presence, first,
The treacherous Nahor brought; and, by his mouth,
The whole design made known. Dismissing soon
The trembling wretch,—for, like to fiery darts,
Went to the caitiff's breast the keen stern looks
Of those who, using, loathed him,—thus, in brief,
Spake Salamenes.

“The whole deep design
Of our most subtle foe thus known to thee,—
Hear now, dread monarch, by what counterstroke
We aim to foil him: and, if overbold
Perchance it seem that, not consulting first
Assyria's lord, thy queen and brother dared
Council to summon; and the instant means
Devise to save thy city,—let the need
Excuse the daring. Thus, then, have we done.

“The hundred Medes first captured,—man by man,
Sternly were questioned, till the whole stood clear.
The enemy in his own toils to take,
Thus next was ordered. When the sun hath set,—
Chariots and horsemen, two score thousand strong,
Silently moving, will the city leave,
And take wide compass; to the eastward half,
Half toward the west: but when, ere dawn, the Medes
With their whole force move onward from the camp,
Behind them will they close.

“On either flank
Of the exulting rebels, marching on,—
Horse, chariots, twice ten thousand; infantry
Twice fifty thousand,—ambushed warily,
Will wait the sign: and, from the Nisroch gate
At distance fit, wide stretching, east and west,—
In the death-hug so best to grapple them,—
Of infantry, a hundred thousand strong,
Thrice told. But in the city, near the gates,—
All prompt to act as may occasion call,—
Will stand the rest. Then, when at dawn the Medes
Before the gate of Nisroch come, and strike,—
It shall be opened. They will mount the wall,

130

And show the sign,—three torches, waved abreast,—
For all their host to march. But, when the sound
Of the on-coming shall be heard—behold!
A thousand trumpets on the battlement
Shall signal give; a universal shout
From all our armies answer; and, at once,
Behind, before, on either flank, shall fall
Destruction on them. Retribution fit!
So the great gods smile on us, and assist!”

Well pleased, the monarch listened; all approved;
And once again, to highest heaven of hope
His soul was lifted. But, when left alone,
With solitude despairing thoughts returned;
And with his heart thus darkly he communed.

“All hope is vain! Fate hath our fall decreed!
Why should I toil, and vainly vex myself?
What will be, will be; and no mortal power
Can stay the doom! The banquet was foretold,—
It came; and this great empire to its base,
Was shaken. Tempest—Flood—Earthquake—and Fire,
Are next decreed;—and then the Final Fall!
At what time hence, I know not: all is dark;
Dark as the grave!—The grave? foul thought! Shall worms
Prey on the body of the king of kings,
As on a dog, by the wayside cast out,
At which the passing beggar stops the nose,
Turning aside with loathing!—But, away!
Black thoughts away! Still lives Assyria's king;
Still king of kings he lives, and lord of lords:
And, though the leper on his corpse may spit;
Yet, living, shall the mightiest of the earth
Tremble, and bow before him. And that wretch,
The doubly miscreant, who his monarch first,
In his great need abandoned; and now comes,
Faithless to those he served,—for sordid gold,
To sell the lives of myriads,—he, even now,
Shall feel my power; and know that, if I use
The traitor's counsel, in my inmost heart
I do abhor the traitor.”

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Starting up,
Aloud he called; and, when the attendants came,
Thus ordered:

“To the captain of the guard
Make speed. Command him straightway to lead forth
The Arachosian, Nahor: hand and foot,
Bind him with cords: then from the battlement
Fling him down headlong! So shall it be seen
How the king loveth traitors.”

Mutely bowed
The attendants, and retired. A gloomy joy
Burning within him, as at some great act
Of stern, reluctant justice,—on his couch
Again the monarch sank: but, in brief time,
Dark fears returning, he before him called
Magicians, and astrologers, who now
Within the palace dwelt, that nigh at hand
They might await his bidding; and thus said:

“Upon the morrow will the armies meet
In a great conflict. Search, and, by your art,
Foretell to me the issue.”

Lowly bowed
The cunning men, and went. But when, at length,
Before the cheerless king again they stood,
Downcast their faces were; and, for a time,
No man among them spake.

Then thus the king:
“Have ye no answer? Wherefore stand ye mute?
Shall we be victors, or again o'erthrown?
And shall the king himself the battle lead,
Or to his brother trust it?”

Stepping then
Before his fellows, Mophis bowed, and said.

“O king of kings! let not thy soul be wroth
With thy poor servants, if the thing they speak
Ill pleasing to thee be. So darkly show
The auguries; that, whether good, or ill,
Upon the morrow wait thee,—with sure eye
Can none of us foresee. Yet, unto one,
Thus is it shadowed. For Assyria's lot,

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Evil, and Good, with balanced force contend;
And the dread issue, Fate alone doth know.
But, let the king a solemn sacrifice
To the gods offer; and they, now incensed,
May be appeased, and grant the victory.
And this the manner of the sacrifice.
Let him beside the altar-stone bind safe
A virgin, nobly born, and beautiful
As flowers of summer. If the battle, then,
Go with the king,—the gods demand her not;
And she may live: but, if against him hold
The tide of conflict,—then may he be sure
That wrathful are they still; and do require
The atoning incense of the sacrifice.
Then, let her blood steam upward from the ground;
And on the altar-fire her limbs be spread;
Till in thick curling clouds of fragrant smoke
Her form be melted, and to heaven go up,—
Their wrath appeasing. So the flood of war
Shall, at the smile of the approving gods,
Turn back; and bear the king to victory.”

Well pleased, the monarch heard. Dismissing then
The augurs, he his youthful charioteer
Summoned, and thus: “To Salamenes haste.
Say—‘on the morrow doth the king intend
A solemn sacrifice, the gods to soothe,
And goeth not to battle: therefore thou
His armies lead: and look for victory.’”

Lowly bowed Dara, and with speed withdrew;
But sorrowing; for he knew the word had flown
Throughout the armies, that the king himself
Would lead his hosts to combat; and much now
He feared, lest in the soldiers should arise
Disheartening thoughts. To Salamenes soon
He bore the unwelcome message.

Shame, wrath, grief,
And terror racking her when this she heard,
At once the queen set forth; even on her knees
Resolved to fall, from his ill-boding end,
The fickle king to turn. But, unassured

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Of welcome; and misdoubting, lest more hard
His bosom should be hardened at her prayer,—
Her daughter first she sought; and thus, with tears
Dimming her lustrous eyes, in haste began.

“Nehushta, thou, of those whom most he loves,
Art to thy father dearest: to thy voice
Oft hath he listed, when, to all beside,
Deaf as the rock. Oh! may he hear thee now,
And grant thy prayer; else, will a crushing ill
Fall on us, and Assyria may be lost!
He promised, with to-morrow's dawn, once more
To lead his armies 'gainst the rebel crew,—
And glad thereat, and strong, was every heart:
But he revoketh now the word; and saith,
A solemn sacrifice he hath to make;
And, in his place, must Salamenes lead;
And look for victory.—That fatal word
Made known unto the soldiers,—half their strength,
And their whole heart will melt like mist away.
Go then, my daughter: fall before his feet:
Embrace his knees; and pour out all thy soul
In prayer and tears,—from this ill-boding course
To turn him back: else, may the day of joy
That dawneth on us, change to one long night
Of weeping, lamentation, and despair.”

Nehushta heard, and trembled: to the arms
Of her loved mother, with a fond embrace,
Sprang hastily; a duteous daughter's kiss
Pressed on her cheek; then, with a fluttering heart,
But soul resolved, went forth.

The king, meantime,
Alone and gloomy sat: but thus, at length,
In words, to thought gave shape. “Auspicious most
The occasion seems. Well every snare is set,
The enemy to take; and surely now
Ruin should seize them: yet, when I would look
On a bright future, I behold it not;
But, in its place, a cloud that covers all,
As with a grave-cloth. Equal in their strength,
For, and against me, Good, and Evil, fight;—

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So say the wizards,—and the final end
Their art shows not: but, with this sacrifice,
If I the gods appease, then shall the Good
Vanquish the Evil; and the king shall stand
For aye triumphant o'er his enemies.
So they: but not as these the prophet spake;
Both in the flesh, and when before mine eyes,
On that dread night, his bloodless spectre came:
No conquest promised he; but, tempest,—flood,—
Fire,—earthquake, threatened; and the utter fall
Of me, and mine, and this great Nineveh!
If he the truth, then have they uttered lies:
If they the truth, then are his threatenings false.
How may I know? I read not from the book
In which man's fate is written: nor have proof
That any rightly read,—or read at all,
Save in their own imaginings. Too well,
One evil did the Israelitish seer
Predict to me: but, have not also they,
Chaldea's prophets, oft of good forewarned,
And evil, which the time hath brought to pass?
Why, therefore, unto them, as unto him,
Credence should I not give?—since, by the event,
Have both alike been proved. Come then what may,
The issue will I try. As they have said,
So everything shall be. Beneath the rule
Of Salamenes shall the host go forth:
The victim, bound, shall by the altar sit;
And wait the gods' disposal. If with us
The battle go, then shall her bonds be loosed:
If with our foes, then shall her blood be shed;
Her body on the altar-fire be burned:
And I, even I myself, will single forth
The victim for the offering. Yet not I,
But heaven, shall choose her.”

On his knees he fell,
And lifted up his hands.

“Hear, all ye gods
Who rule man's destiny! By you I swear;

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By earth, and sea, and sky! by heaven above,
And by the realms below! by all that is,
All that hath been, and all that yet shall be!
By these I swear!—the virgin, nobly born,
Youthful, and chaste, on whom I first shall look;—
Be she the sister, or the one loved child
Of lord, or chief, or prince, who to my heart
Is dearest upon earth,—yet, as your choice,
Almighty Powers! her will I single forth
Her solely, irredeemably: her limbs
Beside the altar-stone the priest shall bind:
Thereon, demanded, shall her blood pour forth;
Her body utterly consume with fire!
So may the sacrifice accepted be!
And, if I falsely swear, then, ye great gods,
Strike down my throne! the eternal walls throw down!
Make me a mock and hissing unto men!
Let the brute rebel spit upon my corse!
Give to me not the honored sepulture
Of a long line of kings; but let foul birds
Devour my flesh, and wild dogs gnaw my bones!”

He ended; bowed, sank down,—his trembling hands
Touching the floor, as though beneath a load
Of fate mysterious crushed: for now he felt,
A chain invisible had girt him round,
From which was no escape. At length, he rose;
And, with white face, and sharply quivering lip,
Sat silently; as in a fearful dream
Brooding on what should come.

But, suddenly,—
For he the opening door, the advancing steps,
So deep his musing, heard not,—at his feet
A veilëd woman knelt. Some concubine
He judged her, who, leave asking not, had come,
In hope to soothe him; or some boon, perchance,
Intent to beg; and angrily exclaimed:
“Rise, woman! Wherefore hast thou thus presumed?
Hence—vex me not.”

But, lifting up her veil,

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With tremulous tone she murmured, “Oh forgive!
Forgive me, my dear father!”

Like the cry
Of tortured maniac, from the king burst forth
A long, loud yell of anguish. From his knee,
Madly he thrust her; sprang upon his feet;
Tore out his hair; his teeth gnashed; stamped the floor,
And rent his garments. In a wild affright,—
Deeming her father by a frenzy seized,—
Nehushta shrieked; ran forth, and called for aid.

The king, meantime, like to a caged-up beast,
To and fro bounded: and, when, terror-struck,
His servants entered,—with a fierce rebuke,
Drove them before him: the strong silver bolt
Shot in the staple; and to bitterest woe,
Rage, and remorse, gave way!

“Oh horrible!
Most horrible!” he cried. “Blood-loving gods!
Is this the victim, then, that ye demand?
My child? my dearest child? If such your will,
Demons, not gods, ye be! I brave you then!
I do defy you! I revoke my vow!
Inflict your worst; flood, earthquake, fire, and death;
I will endure them all, before one hair
Of that fair child, the bloody priest shall touch!

“Magicians cursed! ye knew the victim then!
Ye willed the father, in the daughter's blood,
To dip his hands! But, cry now on the gods,
The demons whom ye serve; and see if they
Your own foul blood can save.”

Wide flew the door:
He called. A captain of the household guard
Before him trembling stood. Like coals of fire,
Glowed his large eyes, his lips were thick with foam,
As thus,—word choking word,—his fury burst.

“Treason is here! The accursed magicians! Fly!
Strike off their heads! Fool! stare not,—but away!
Slay all! Dost hear me? Leave but one alive,

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And in his room thou diest! Off every head!
Fling their vile bodies from the battlement,
A prey to dogs, and vultures! When 'tis done,
Appear, and tell me. Hence! I cannot breathe
While they pollute the air.”

All horror-struck,
Yet dreading to delay, the captain went;
And saw the doom performed: with heavy heart,
Then to the king returned, and told their fate.

A savage joy the tyrant's breast inflamed:
Deeply he breathed, like one who hath his thirst
Well satisfied: then to his chamber went;
The massive bolts shot to; a goblet huge
Of wine quaffed off; and on the gorgeous bed,
His outworn body stretched, to seek repose.

Heavily slept he soon: but hideous dreams
Brought torture. Now, of Nahor, from the wall
Headlong cast down, he thought; his death-shriek heard;
Saw the wild gleaming of his anguished eye;
And felt the dull jar, as the body struck
Upon the trembling ground: anon, behold!
He stood beside his daughter at the pile:
He saw her bosom pierced; her blood poured forth;
Her beauteous corpse upon the altar-fire,
In lurid clouds exhaling: yet, from high,
Faces of angry gods upon him looked:
Corpse-like, yet living, the slain prophets mocked;
And bade him to the fight.

At set of sun,
From thrice a hundred gates that faced the camp—
Like deep streams flowing noiselessly, went forth
Horse, chariots, foot,—four mighty armaments:
Half eastward, westward half, across the plain,—
By the fresh kindled watch-fires of the foe
Directed,—their appointed stations sought;
And formed array for onset. On his steed,

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The rider motionless,—the charioteer,
With reins in hand, and scourge,—like gloomy ranks
Of ghostly warriors, dark and silent all,
Sat waiting the gray dawn.

At later hour,
Went forth, of foot, three hundred thousand strong:
Eastward, and westward,—from the central gate,
At distance fit,—in broad, deep lines, that front
And flank alike should threaten,—formed at last;
And, as commanded, on bare earth, lay down,
Slumber to seek,—ere earliest tint of day,
That they might rise for combat. Yet, long time,—
Fired by expectance of the coming morn,—
Hearts throbbing, eyes wide open, did they lie,
Visioning battle. But dark night, at length,
And the dead stillness, like a magic spell,
Wrought on their senses: gently closed the lids;
Slow came the breath; and imperceptibly,
Like cool dew sinking in a parched-up soil,
O'er all the ardent host soft slumber stole.

'Twas midnight: silent as the solitude
On the broad ocean, when all winds are dead,
And on the glassy deep the stars shine clear
As in the sky,—the wondrous city lay.

But Salamenes,—watchful till the last,
Upon the battlement, above the gate
Of Nisroch, took his stand; and earnestly
Across the plain looked forth. No motion there.
The myriad watch-fires of the Medes flared high;
Their deep soft moaning, like a mother's song,
Lulling the drowsy night. Less distance off,
Toward east, and west, where couched the ambushed foot,
His eyes then cast he. All in darkness lay,
And silent as the grave.

No bed, that night,
The anxious leader sought; but, armed complete,
His weary frame within a lion's hide
Enfolded; and, along the battlement,
Above the gate lay down, and sank to rest.

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Throughout the Median camp, not less, was all
For combat ordered. Ready to the hand,
Spear, sword, shield, axe, dart, bow, and quiver lay.
In even ranks the brazen chariots stood,
Silent and dreadful,—as with life instinct,
Longing to thunder. O'er his fragrant corn,
Snorted the war-horse; or, with ears erect,
Listed his rider's coming,—for he knew
The battle was at hand: and, as he lay,
The steel-clothed warrior, sleeping or awake,
Beheld the mighty city's overthrow.

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BOOK THE TWENTIETH.

To anxious thousands on the northern wall,—
With head outstretched above the battlement,
Looking, and listening,—eager the first sign
Of stirring foe to catch,—at slow pace dragged
The wheels of Night's black chariot. Dense the gloom:
The watch-fires of the Medes, unfed, had died;
And through the solid canopy of cloud,
No star-light glimmered.

Two hours yet of dawn
Were wanting, when their sharpened ears the sound
Of war approaching caught,—the march of hosts,
The tread of horses, and the gentle roll
Of wheels on the soft herbage. Still long time
They waited, ere the slow and cautious step
Of men at hand was heard. More nigh drew they:
Stood still at last; and, on the wicket gate,
Struck the soft signal. They who watched within,
Heard, and made haste to answer. As by stealth,
The massive bolts were drawn; the ponderous bars
Were lifted; moaned the hinges, as they bore,
Slowly, and steadily, their brazen load;
And the great gate stood open. Silently,
The Medes went in: with quick, and noiseless tread,
Mounted the battlement; and showed the sign,—
Three torches, waved abreast.

At once the earth
Gave forth a sound as of a distant flood;
Trembling and murmuring 'neath the hurried march

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Of multitudes; the roll of chariot wheels,
And tramp of fiery steeds.

Above the gate,—
Like one who watchful waits the destined time
A mine to fire that, as with earthquake-shock,
Shall whelm a city,—Salamenes stood;
The moment seized, and spake. The startling blast
Of a trumpet followed: in a moment more,
The air was shivered by ten thousand tubes,
Loud blaring, and the clamors of the host,
Upstarting from their ambush. On the wall,
As if by magic kindled, flared at once
Unnumbered fires; and, on the lofty mound
Of Ninus, like volcano newly waked,
A blaze terrific suddenly shot up,
That the black arch of cloud turned bloody red,
And washed with fire the plain. The astonished Medes,
To east, west, south, the blare of trumpets heard,
And armies shouting: and behind them, too,
Voices, and trumpets, and the coming-on
Of steeds, and chariots; so that all around
By foes they seemed encompassed. On them then
Fell withering terror.

As when, nigh the shore,
Before the furious storm, some goodly ship
Impetuously is driven,—amid the roar
Of winds, the groan and crash of rending masts,—
The fiend-like howlings, and the thunder-strokes
Of giant billows bursting on the rocks,—
Vainly the anxious pilot lifts his voice;
Few hear, none understand: the affrighted crew
Shrink cowering from the storm; or, with wild haste,
Hither, and thither run,—all order lost,
All rule o'erthrown,—even such confusion dire
Fell on the astounded Medes; even so in vain
His mighty voice Arbaces lifted up;
Bade them be men, and soldiers. Motionless
Stood some, aghast, like men who in the dark
Behold a spirit: some, their arms flung down,

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To run—they knew not whither: even the best,
And bravest, felt a sinking of the heart,
A failing of the strength.

As when the tide
Against a strong wind strives to make its way,—
Heavily rock and roll the laboring waves;
Now this way sweep, now that; advancing now,
And now recoiling, to advance again,—
Even so, erelong, the mortal counterfloods,
With hideous uproar, to and fro were borne.
But still the Assyrians, flushed with hope, and strong,
For conquest fought; the Medes, as yet, confused,
Astonished, struck not, save in self defence;
With life to escape, content. So, darkling, fought,
On either side, the hosts; and thousands fell.

But when, though through an ocean of thick cloud,
The day-god, rising, on the plain looked down,
And showed distinct the battle,—then, too well,
The Medes beheld, how, by the fiery foe,
On all sides they were compassed; and their hearts
Sank utterly; for, to himself each said,
“Surely a mighty army hath been brought
To aid the city! lo, from north, and south,
From east, and west, they come.”

All order lost,
All rule unheeded, backward from the foe,
On every side they fell; and, in the midst,
A formless mass, dense wedged, together crushed.
Shoulder to shoulder, breast to breast, and back
'Gainst back hard driven,—they rocked, and rolled, and reeled.
None which way knew to fly; or, franticly,
All save the few, the dauntless few, had fled.

In vain the valiant captains on them called;
Their valour all in vain; for, by the throng
Hemmed in, as by a wall, the bravest stood,
Even as the coward, powerless. Mail-clad steed,
Or ponderous chariot, to the battle's front
Strove vainly to advance,—so dense the mass
Of myriads round them thronging. They alone

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Who on the edge of conflict stood, perforce,
And madly, fought; of life despairing all,
Yet all athirst, ere they were slain, to slay.

Then, in the hearts of the Assyrian chiefs,
To the height rose hope. Upon their soldiers they
Unceasingly called out, and urged them on;
“For this day shall your shame be all redeemed:
The insolent rebel shall again bow down,
And own his conqueror.” On the hard-wedged mass
Of shrinking Medes, the clouds of thundering horse
Poured on impetuous,—hurling, trampling down:
And, skirting on the outer edge of fight,
Whirled heavy war-cars, with their brazen wheels,
As with a scythe, shearing the battle's edge.

High in a splendid chariot of the king,
And by his matchless horses rapt along,
Rode Salamenes,—with heroic deed,
And ceaseless exhortation, to the work
Ardently stirring. Onward as he flew,
Still was his cry; “All glory to the brave!
Unto the coward, loathing! Better far
Is death than shame. Oh now, Assyrians, now
Put forth your strength! Charge on! The day is ours!
Heaven fights for us!”

Along the battlement,
Myriads, and tens of myriads, crowding, gazed;
And, with unceasing outcries, to the task
Their friends exhorted. Salamenes, them
Beholding, pointed with his glittering spear,
And cried aloud, “Look up, Assyrians—See—
Your sons, your mothers, and your aged sires,
Your daughters, and your wives, and maids betrothed,
All witness what ye do. On, on! the brave
They love and honor; but the coward hate.”

With like encouragement, did every chief
His soldiers urge to combat. By the din
Of rout, and onset, the cloud-canopy
Was shaken; and the ground was heaped with slain.

But, on the Median night, at length rose dawn,
And, soon, a mid-day splendor. In the midst,

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Even in the very heart of that dense throng,
Amid the crush of frighted myriads,
Long time Arbaces stood; and, all in vain,
His voice uplifted; and his matchless strength
In vain put forth,—that human mound to move,
And to the battle's front clear passage make.
Like to a man against a torrent stream
Striving to force his way,—who, if a step
With labor hard one moment he hath gained,
Even in the next, is, by the furious flood
Forced back, or turned aside,—with labor such,
And such repulse, the godlike leader toiled.
With hands extended, right and left he thrust,
Forcing his way; but, a brief opening won,
Again the boiling waves of men drove in,
Barring his passage. Nathless, on he moved,—
Though like to one amid a quagmire deep
Entangled,—slowly, and with labor great.

But now at length, nor more than spear-cast thence,
A rising ground he saw; and, half way up,
A throng of trumpeters, and those who bore
That mighty ensign, which himself the first
Had planted,—symbol of the great revolt
That should set free the nations. But, not now,
That banner—mute, yet myriad-voiced, to fire
Souls of the brave—its thrilling summons waved:
Not now, the ringing trumpets, with fierce clang,
Stormed at the hearts of men,—to do, or die!
Close furled upon its staff, and slanting low,
Seemed as that flag, dishonored, stooped its head,
Fearing the contest; and the martial tubes
Hung silent by the pale-faced trumpeters,
As they no more dared sound.

That sight, at once,
To fury irrepressible stirred up
The Mede's long suffering mind. Till then,—by grief
And pity for his well-tried followers moved,
In that so sudden strait,—his matchless strength,
With patience, and with kindness, had he used;

145

Each moment hoping, that to nobler thoughts
They would awaken: but no longer, now,
With gentle force he strove a path to win:
Fired by that abject spectacle,—at once,
His lofty shoulder stooping, and one foot
Behind him planting,—with resistless might,—
Even as a ploughshare through a heavy soil
Stiffly bears on,—to this side, and to that,
Thrusting the rent-up ground,—so, through the press,—
His shield advanced,—his great, heart-shaking voice
Calling to make clear room,—to right, to left,
Thrusting, o'erthrowing,—on he ploughed his way.

Arrived at last, the banner-staff he seized;
Flew up, and, on the summit of the mound,
The ensign shaking loose,—with giant strength,
Round and round whirled it; and sent far and wide
His spirit-stirring voice. Like a vast flame
Shaken by tempest, roared the quivering flag:
Again, and yet again, to every side
He turned, and waved it, and his voice sent forth:
Then, deep in earth drove down the mast-like staff;
His sword drew forth; and, calling to his side
The now all-eager trumpeters, bade blow
Signal of onset, strife unto the death.

“Here stand ye all the day, till turns the fight:
Blow out continually: into the brass
Pour all your souls: thousands of arms, now weak,
At every martial clang will gather strength;
Thousands of feet will onward. Sound aloud,
Till the arched heaven give echo.”

At the word,
Pealed forth, as with one breath, a mighty blast,
Far spreading, that the hearts of myriads fired,
As lightning fires the darkness. Looking up
To the mound's top,—o'er all high eminent,
The sun-like ensign, streaming in the wind,
They saw; and, by its side, in dazzling arms,
As 'twere a god alighted to their aid,
Their victory-bringing chief. His glittering sword

146

Forward he pointed, motioning advance:
North, south, and east, and west, he signed them on.
The rapid thrust, more eloquent than words;
The fiercely stamping foot, said,—“On! away!
Bear them before you! sweep them like a flood!”

As when, at night, heaven's vault with rocky clouds
Thickly is covered; motionless they hang,
Silent, and gloomy, as a funeral train
Around an open grave;—if then the bolt
From Jove's dread arm is hurled,—a sudden blaze
Fires the whole ebon concave: a great voice
Startles the dreaming Night: o'er all the sky,
Cloud after cloud takes up, and passes on,
The grand alarum; till, on utmost verge
Of the huge arch, in murmurs dies away
The long resounding roar,—even such the change
That o'er that lifeless and despairing host
Came suddenly, when, like a gleam from heaven,
Within the darkness of their souls was shot
The spirit of their chief. Up went at once
The human thunder; far and wide it ran;
Peal after peal leaped forth, and bounded on;
And called again; and, from the farthest line,
Again was echoed. Over all the field
Banners sprang up, and shook their glittering plumes;
Blared the fierce trumpets, and the cymbals rang,
Firing to onset.

As a northern sea,
Long frost prevailing, silent lies and dead;
A mass of hard-locked ice: the hapless bark,
Fixed as in iron, stands; and, o'er its side,
The pallid seamen look, and think of home
Far distant, and the happy fire-side group,
Children, and wife, whom they no more shall see,—
That ship their grave!—so, by an icy fear,
Of strength and spirit bereft,—eyes dim, ears deaf,
Brain stunned, limbs motionless, had stood the host.

But, as on that dead adamantine deep,
When once the joyous spirits of the air,
From the bright sun-fields of the south are come;

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Bringing the summer gale from burning sands
Of Afric, and the ever-steaming deep
Around the equator,—then, with long, slow roll,
Great ocean heaves; with thunderous crashings rent,
Wide parts the icy plain: the dead is touched
With a new life; the motionless is stirred:
Up rise the joyous waves, and clap their hands,
And lift their voices, dashing to and fro:
From out its prison starts the gladdened ship:
The sails spring upward: like a loosened steed,
It paws the waters,—from its strong-ribbed sides,
Scattering the broken fetters; while, aloft,
The seaman's cheerful voice again is heard;
And life and action spring as from the dead,—
Even so that sea of men, by terror locked,
A hard-wedged mass, immoveable, and cold,—
Before the tempest of their leader's voice,
The ardor of his spirit, burst at once
The icy chains; and, with resistless heave,
Wave after wave, against the startled foe
Advanced, and broke, and gathered up again,
And onward swept anew.

And now, behold!
As if with gladness on them looking down,
From the thick shrine of cloud, where long had lain
Its glory hidden,—the great eye of heaven
Poured in a flood its golden beams intense
On that awakened host. On them alone
Came down the glory: on the Assyrians, still,
The city, and the vast horizon's bound,
Dark shadow lowered. Intensely bright gleamed out
The burnished armour, and the glittering sword,
The star-like spear-point, and the tossing shield,
The brazen chariot, and the mail-clad horse.
High in the midst, the mighty gonfalon,
And, far and wide, a thousand smaller flags,
Their fiery pennons flapped.

Rejoicing now,
Like a young war-horse at the trumpet's sound,
Up to his blazing chariot sprang the Mede;

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And through the quickly opening space rode on,
Nigh to the press of battle. But, as yet,
Himself in fight mixed not; the wiser part
Esteeming now, throughout the host to go,
Directing, and exhorting. On he rode,
Circling the rear of contest. At his voice,
All hearts were cheered; all arms invincible seemed.

Like a strong rising tide, which rapidly
O'er the low sands doth gather,—every wave
The face of ocean widening, till, at length,
Even at the rock-base do the billows burst,—
So, forward pressing, ever flowing on,
The tide of Medes on the Assyrian banks
Higher and higher drove; behind them still
A widening area leaving. In the midst,
A dread reserve,—like the still-sleeping bolts,
Waiting Jove's arm,—thousands of chariots stood,
And clouds of restless horse,—all anxiously
Biding the moment when the clear-eyed chief
Should hurl them on the foe. He, with calm mien,
Still round and round his rapid passage took;
And still his trumpet-voice into the hearts
Of his brave soldiers sent.

From out his car,
At length, down leaping, up the mound he flew;
And, on the summit standing, far and wide
Along the plain his eagle glances shot,
And thence disposed the battle. His commands,
Riders on wind-swift steeds stood prompt to bear.
Like arrows from the bow, now here, now there,
He sent them forth; and ever with them flew
The spirit of their chief. Alone stood he:
None questioned him: unbidden, none approached:
The princes, and the captains, all in fight
Were hotly mingled: he alone remained,
To watch the storm, and point the thunder-bolts:
His own arm still reserving, till one blow
Might strike the key-stone of the trembling arch,
And bring it down in ruin. For long hours

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So toiled the hosts; nor victory, as yet,
For either side proclaimed.

Since dawn, the queen,
From a high tower had overlooked the field:
And, when she marked that still encroaching flood,
On every side, too quickly making way,—
Step after step, the Assyrians driving back,
And more and more, at each recoil, their ranks
Thinning, and weakening,—in her heart she said;
“The storm, I fear, is gathering, that, erelong,
Will overwhelm us! Like a frozen snake,
Long time the enemy lay; but now he rears,
With double strength, his horrid crest; and shakes
Fire from his baleful eyes. Like pestilence
The breath he vomits: from before him shrink
Our erst victorious ranks, as though a spell
Of magic ruled them; and, if suddenly
New soul be not infused, this day, perchance,
Will set upon Assyria's overthrow!”

To Dara then, who near her stood, she turned:
By the arm grasped him; with bright, anxious eye,
Gazed in his face, and hurriedly began:
“Fly to the palace, Dara, swift as wind.
The moody king, by some chimera bound,
Avoids the field: but, prostrate at his feet
Fall thou; implore, conjure him, instantly,
No moment lost, with every fighting man
That yet the city holds, to issue forth.
Tell him, so trembling stands the balance now,
That, on the revolution of an hour,
May hang this empire's doom! Oh, bid him think,
How many myriads now for him do look,
As seamen for the pole-star. Say, his throne,
His children, queen, his kingdom, and his life,
All on this day depend. If still he pause,
Tell him that I, even I, unarmed and weak,
Will dare the fight he shuns; and rather die
Than see this battle lost. My strength is nought;
My arm is woman's: but a daring soul

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Knoweth not sex; and, in the feeblest frame,
More than the mightiest, shines and animates.
When woman leads, man dares not lag behind!
Then, if he falter, tell him, on the field,
The mother of his children shall be found,
A victor, or a corpse. Away,—and plead
As for thy life; nay, for the lives of all.”

A low obeisance made the graceful youth,
And instantly was gone. “And may thy tongue,”
Inly she said, “drop words like burning coals
Upon the frozen heart of that strange man!
What if he come not! Of a surety then
Will I go forth; though never to return,
Save for the sepulchre. What then! what loss!
Who would not perish in a country's cause!
My life is but a breath, a wreath of mist,
Which soon must pass away: and, when 'tis gone,
None will take note: the sun, as heretofore,
Will shine upon a bright, and gladsome earth:
But oh! thou great and glorious Nineveh!
Thou sun of all this world! if thou should'st fall,
Darkness will come upon the race of man:
And never more, on splendor like to thine,
Will the glad heavens look down!”

Some pearly drops
Stealthily wiping off,—her great soul then,
The worst to meet, she summoned; and once more,
On the dread field looked forth.

The king, meantime,
From slumber by first din of battle roused,
Within a lofty chamber long had sat,
Watching the altered strife. Dark now his face;
His lips compressed; his eyes were wild, and stern.
In gloomy silence all alone he sat;
And none had dared approach. No thought had he
Of arming for the fight: his hideous dreams,
The spectres of the wizards, that still seemed
To mock, and threaten,—bowed his spirit down.
He felt as underneath the iron hand
Of a vindictive Fate, 'gainst which to strive,

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Were hopeless folly. Keenly now he rued
That rash tyrannic act which, at one blow,
Seemed from the dusky future to have shut
Glance, or conjecture. If the gods, indeed,
For that terrific sacrifice had called,
And by the mouths of prophets made it known,—
What guilt were his, what vengeance might he dread,
Who their selected ministers had sent
To quick and shameful death; their only crime,
The utterance of heaven's will! Thus, darkly rapt,
Sat he, his fate awaiting; while his eyes
Upon the dreadful face of war were chained,
As by a basilisk's gaze. At length he called;
And Tartan, captain of the royal guard,—
Not summoned, but awaiting anxiously
A time to enter,—hurriedly came in:
Dropped on his knee: uplifted trembling hands,
Tear-glistening eyes, and cried, “Oh, most dread lord!
Hear, I implore, thy faithful soldiers' prayer!
As dying men for water, they call out,
In their dire anguish, for their absent king!
Dawn promised victory,—ruin threats them now!
Hark to the din. The very ground, even here,
'Neath the death-struggle of the maddened hosts,
Horse-trampling, and the thunder of the wheels,
Jars as with throb of earthquake! Oh, dread lord,
Canst thou look on, and see all perishing!
Arm, arm, and save them!”

But his earnest prayer,
The king, displeased, broke off: “Rash youth, forbear!
O'ermuch thou dost presume. Though in thy veins,
As mine, flows royal blood,—bethink thee yet,
How great the difference 'twixt even noblest branch,
And the great trunk. Within one state can reign
One monarch only. Mine it is to rule,
Thine to obey. My counsels are mine own:
That which I will, I will; and let none seek
To sway my purpose. Answer not, but go:
And let the wise physician instantly

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Appear before me.”

Mute, but with a heart
By grief and anger laden, Tartan went:
And, in brief time, the hoary-headed leech
Before the monarch stood; and silently
His will awaited. On his reverend face
The king a moment turned a vacant eye,
As though the organ, to the mind distraught,
No sense conveyed; but, soon recovering, thus:

“Peresh, the man thou know'st, who, when cast down
In that last fatal conflict,—from the ground
In his own chariot raised, and through the press
In safety bore me. With a royal hand,
The service was repaid: gold, ay and gems,
A satrap's ransom, were bestowed on him,
In quittance of the act: yet was that man
Offensive to my sight. By gratitude
Untouched,—though that I heed not,—by my power,
And regal state unawed,—even at the throne,
And in the presence of the king of kings,
Erect, and proud, and unabashed, he stood,
As with his equal fronted: and, when I,
Ill pleased, admonished him, and so dismissed,
Nought humbled heard he, but with ominous look
Thus answered: ‘In thine hour of danger, once,
King of Assyria, did I stretch the hand
And save thee: in thy trouble, yet again
Upon me wilt thou call; and I shall come!’

“Alas! that trouble is already here!
Look on yon threatening field, which, at the dawn,
Great victory promised: ere the sun go down,
Ruin may cover it! The man I loathe,
Yet must I use him. In an evil hour,
The seers in whom I trusted, were cut off:
He only, but the mightiest far, remains.
Bitter the draught; yet, nathless, must be drunk.
Seek the proud Barak, then: with utmost speed,
Bring him before me.”

Bowing reverently,

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The agëd leech withdrew: and on the plain
Again, with troubled look, the monarch gazed.
Still as a statue, gloomy as the grave,
There sat he: hard and stern his countenance;
His thoughts all blackness. But, at length, the door
Softly was opened; and Azubah came;
Knelt down before him, and, in piteous tones,
Besought him: “Hear, oh hear, most gracious lord,
The prayer of thy poor people! Still they cry,
‘Where is the king? Why, in this dreadful hour,
Hides he his face, and comes not forth to save?’
Lord of Assyria, hearken to them now!
Go in the terrors of thy majesty:
Show but thy face upon the battle-field,
And every heart will have a lion's rage,
Each arm a giant's strength. Oh! hear, and save!”

So she, with radiant face, and tearful eye,
The king imploring: but, with head avert,
And hand repellant, he her prayer denied:
“Thou know'st not what thou say'st. Away—away!
Arise, thou wilt incense me!”

While he spake,
With rapid step, and face by terror blanched,
Came Dara,—on the knee before him dropped,—
Uplifted quivering hands,—and hurriedly,
With tone impassioned, thus. “O king of kings!
Sent by Assyria's weeping queen I come,
An humble suppliant. Not a moment lost,—
With every fighting man the city holds,
She prays, implores, conjures thee to go forth,
And save thy people! else, will she herself,
Weak as she is, even in her woman's garb,
Unarmed, unshielded, fly into the field,
And cheer the soldiers. ‘Tell the king,’ she said,
‘If now he falter,—on the battle-plain
The mother of his children shall be found,
A victor, or a corpse!’ Oh! king of kings!
Let not thy noble queen in vain implore!
Danger with every moment direr grows:

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Assyria's doom, thy power, thy throne, thy life,
On this one hour depend!”

Not all unmoved,
The monarch heard; but, by despair bowed down,
In tone of sadness, more than anger, thus,
With gentle interruption, answered him.

“Enough, enough. Not for slight cause, be sure,
On this momentous day I hold aloof.
The queen, nor thou, nor any mortal man,
My thoughts can know. If yet I may go forth,
Hid in the future lies; nor I myself
Aright can see. With this be thou content.
But, for the queen, on pain of my full wrath,
I charge her from her purpose to desist.
The sphere of woman is not in the field,
Where men like wild beasts rage. Her presence there,
Indecent were, as useless; and would clog,
Rather than oil, the wheels of victory.
This let her know. And, now, retire ye both;
Ye have your answer. Rise, and speak no more.”

With sorrowing hearts, Azubah, and the youth
Then rose, and went their way.

Brief time had passed,
When once again upon its golden hinge
The lofty portal turned; and a gaunt form,
Of height gigantic, and of port erect,
Proudly stalked in. The face was wan, and dark;
Stern as a watchful lion's. 'Neath black brows,
And massive, glowed, as in two darksome caves,
Eyes, bright as coals of fire. His wiry hair,
Of midnight blackness, round his ghastly head,
Like to a wind-swept cedar o'er a tomb,
Streamed wild, and ragged. In an ample robe,
Of ebon hue, that to the ankle fell,
His form was wrapped: the strong right arm alone,
Bare from the shoulder, sallow as a corpse,
Hairy and fleshless, by his side hung down,
A huge anatomy. Slight reverence made,
Before the king he stood; and fixed on him,

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His stern, soul-piercing eyes. The king on him,
As sternly gazed again; and, for a time,
Was silence in the chamber. But, at length,
Raising his bony arm, and toward the plain
The lean forefinger pointing,—with a voice
Hollow and deep as echo in a vault,
Thus the dark wizard spake.

“Remember'st thou,
King of Assyria,—when with angry words
Thou didst rebuke me,—how I answered thee?
‘Once, in thy peril, did I stretch my hand,
And save thee: in thy trouble, yet again
Upon me wilt thou call, and I shall come.’

“Perchance my words were mocked at,—but, behold!
That hour of trouble is already here:
Upon me thou hast called; and I am come.
Think'st thou that from these prescient eyes, even then,
Yon gory field was hidden? No! I saw
Where, on one hand, an altar-stone was raised;
The faces of the gods, from out the clouds,
Looking benignant. On the other hand,
A spacious plain I saw. The pall of night
Hung o'er it; yet I marked where cars and horse,
And countless foot, in breathless ambush lay,
Waiting a coming foe. Day dawned; and lo!
Contending hosts, as on an earthquake's bed,
Rocking and heaving! Victory, as yet,
To neither side was given. The gods looked down,
Their doom suspending; for the sacrifice
Long waiting: but the victim was refused.
Stern grew their faces then: from their dread eyes
They shot down lightnings; and, anon, like waves
Before the tempest driven, in headlong flight
Ran those on whom they thundered: in pursuit,
Legions, whose swords seemed flame.

“Soon then again
Thick darkness fell, and curtained all from sight.
But, from a city nigh at hand, I heard
The sounds of lamentation, and of dread;

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The shriek of women, for their husbands slain;
The cry of children, for their fathers fallen:
And, from the dark vault of the starless sky,
I heard the voices of the angry gods,
Threatening yet heavier doom. In this, O king!
Behold the shadowing of thy destiny!
The choice, even yet, is thine; the sacrifice
By heaven required, and hope of victory;
Or disobedience, and sure overthrow.
What if the child be dear to thee as life;
Were not her blood cheap purchase for the breath
Of myriads, who must, else, this fatal day,
Gasp out their last? What though her eyes are bright,
Her lips are ruddy,—brighter are the gems,
And ruddier, on the crown thou else wilt lose.
When myriads die for thee, may not thy one
Die for the myriads? Thinkest thou her blood” . . . .

Still was he speaking, when, from off his couch,
Like a struck tiger, sprang the furious king:
His leaping sword made lightning: his teeth gnashed:
Death-white his lips: his eyes were living fire!

“Wretch! cursed of men and gods!” madly he cried,
And shook the quivering blade; “a sacrifice
The gods shall have; thy blood, thou toad! thou asp!
Vulture! hyena! Oh for serpents' tongues
To hiss the hate, the loathing of my soul!
Down to the pit! go down!”

While yet he spake,
His vengeful arm 'gan fall. Amid that storm,
No word the seer replied. With look unchanged,
And limbs unstirred, cold and unmoved he stood,
As some grim statue, chiselled from the rock,
Stands in the beating tempest. But, when now
The sword was falling, one swift step he made,—
His arm thrust forth; and, with an iron grasp,
The wrist compressing of the astonished king,
Motionless held it, as if, suddenly,
The flesh were turned to stone. An instant thus

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He stood; and on the monarch's countenance
His eye appalling fixed: loosed then his hold;
A pace retired; and, gathering up his robe,
Fearless, and cool, spake out.

“I dread thee not,
King of Assyria; for thy doom I know,
And know my own. Our time not yet is come.
Think'st thou, had I, like other men been weak,
That, at thy summons, hither I had sped,
When even now, beneath the northern wall,
Twelve headless trunks, the victims of thy rage,
A bloody warning give? For punishment
On thee, their slayer, do their ghosts cry out.
Their death was murder! Not from their own thoughts,
But as instructed, spake they. When in vain
They strove to read thy destiny,—on me,
In their perplexity, they called; and I,
I only, read that sealed-up page of Fate,
For uttering which they died. Yea, king, 'twas I,
Barak,—who read it. They are dead! and he
Who taught them, now before their slayer stands,
And fears him not: for, know, earth-ruling king!
Thy life with mine is knit: our day of doom,
One and the same. The hour that sees me fall,
Sees, ere its close, the king of kings a clod.
If of thy life awearied then,—take mine:
If thou would'st live, and have the victory,
Obey the gods; but swiftly, lest too late
Thou may repent. And now, O king, farewell.
My task is ended; soon must thine begin.
But well I see that, with yet heavier hand,
The gods must smite thee, ere thy spirit bow.
Again on me thou'lt call; again I'll come;
Though yet again in vain.”

Confounded quite,
Bewildered utterly,—the king, like one
Who knows not well if yet he is awake,
Or in a dream,—stood still, nor spake a word.
With a wild eye he watched the parting steps

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Of that strange being; on his own limbs looked,
As doubting if aright he knew himself;
Then, groaning heavily, upon the couch
Sank backward; and, by bitterest thoughts devoured,
In moody silence lay. Now, all wrapped up
In visions of a dark and dread to-come,
Seemed as no sense he had to present ills,
No life but in that future: eye, nor ear,
Told to the spirit aught: as though deep night
And silence girt him round, unmoved he lay,
Dead to the world without! But, suddenly,
Some hideous battle-cry, from his deep trance
Would startle him; and, springing from the couch,
With haggard face, and wildly wandering eye,
Would he look forth awhile; then sink again,
Buried in blackest musings. So fared he:
Nor, of the millions who to him were slaves,
Might have been found that day one wretch so steeped
In misery, as he, the lord of all.

Meantime, along the sapphire bridge of heaven,
Far, far beyond the canopy of cloud
That mantled earth,—the day-god's lightning steeds,
Through the pure ether rapt his chariot-wheels,
Sounding celestial thunder. To the height
They had ascended; and the steep decline
Half way had measured; yet the hard-fought field
Still was contested: for, like men resolved
On that one day to peril all to come;
To die perchance, but never to submit,
The Assyrian captains strove; and, with like fire,
Their soldiers' hearts inflamed. Aid, too, had come,
Chariots, and horse, and foot,—who, when the scale,
Charged with Assyria's doom, was sinking fast,
Twice had its fall arrested. Once again,
When seemed that utter ruin hovered nigh,
The chariot of Assyria's beauteous queen,
From rank to rank flew on: and, seeing her,
The warrior's breasts, as with new soul infused,
Like beacons freshly kindled, burst at once
In flame intensest. Shieldless, and unhelmed;

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Her ebon hair loose flying in the wind,—
She raised aloft her arms, her voice uplift,
And bade them on to glory. As the star
Of morning, while the sun yet sleeps below,
And the gray mist is on the dewy earth,—
Her face was pale, and radiant. Like a Shape
From heaven descended, and to mortal harm
Impassive,—gloriously, and fearlessly,
Through the death-laden air she flew along.
Her spirit fired the host: with deafening shouts,
Onward they bore; and backward, for a time,
Though slowly, drove their enemy.

On the mound
Still stood Arbaces; over all the field
Serenely looking, and disposing all.
That day, as yet, from the close battle-clash
Himself had kept aloof; but, when he saw
How, suddenly, with strength and rage renewed,
The foe pressed onward, and the Medes retired,—
Down to the plain he strode; and, with a bound,
Into his blazing chariot springing light,
The reins caught up; and, toward the gleaming throng
Of horse and cars, that restlessly yet stood,
His word awaiting, drove; and to their chief,
The hot Arabian king, thus briefly spake.

“Like thine own mettled steeds, my gallant friend,
I see with this long waiting thou art chafed:
But yet a little bear it; ere the end
Well breathed shall we be all. But, hear me now:
And mark me well. Assyria's royal dame
Is in the field: the king, perchance, abed,
Or revelling with his concubines. Right well,
From the mound's top I saw her, in her car
Flying from rank to rank; and, as she passed,—
Even as a strong wind, sweeping o'er a waste
Of half burned forest, blows it into flame,—
So, with her breath, did she the soldiers' hearts
Kindle to heat intense; that now, behold,
They bear us backward; and, unchecked, perchance,
Some vantage may obtain; or, if nought else,

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Defeat may stay, till darkness shelter them.
This go I to prevent: but, most of all,
If fortune favor, would I, in the toils,
Yon beauteous Mischief take,—a prize indeed
Worth half their host; for her great soul alone
Is now their sun; and, wanting her, were they
In utter darkness buried. Heed me then:
Climb thou the mound; and, with a watchful eye,
Observe my course. If through the hostile ranks
Thou see me break,—then, rush on instantly,
With all thy chariots, and thy cavalry,
And sweep them from the plain. But, chiefly, note,
In the instant ere descending, where to find
The warrior-queen; that, with unerring swoop,
Ye may encompass her. Yet, not a hair
Of that most noble head must meet with harm;
No hand must touch her; not a word be breathed,
To wrong, or grieve her. My own life I'd lose
Rather than see her perish; for, in sooth,
Though wife of him whom most we do abhor,—
A creature is she whom the gods themselves
Might proudly throne beside them. Now, these things,
Among the horse and charioteers make known;
Then to the mound; and, with an eagle's eye,
Pierce through the conflict.” Having spoken thus,
He touched the coursers, and the car flew on.

Arriving soon where still, before the strength
Of the now vaunting foe, the Medes gave way,—
His voice he sent afar; and in their hearts
New courage kindled, and a stern resolve.
Up went a thunder-peal of welcome glad;
And man on man called out, as once again,
With strength revived, they turned.

Within his car
Upstanding for a space,—along the front
Of battle looked the Mede, and soon beheld
Where, towering over all, the monstrous bulk
Of Gilgath moved; before him driving still,
With the fell sweep of his colossal arm,

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A crowd of shrinking soldiers. Armed complete
In mail of ponderous brass, against him flew
Arrow, or dart, or spear, as 'gainst a wall
Of adamant. Behind his back immense,
His moon-like shield was slung; upon his thigh,—
A burthen for a man of common mould,—
Clanged his huge sword; but in its brazen sheath
Still sleeping; while, sole weapon now, but dread,
With force of both gigantic arms, he swung
An iron-headed club. All ward, or guard,
Against the stroke terrific, vain appeared
As infant's breath to turn the hurricane:
Helmet, or breast-plate, of what strength soe'er,
Yielding as wax. From side to side flew on
The monstrous engine; and, where'er it fell,
Crushed utterly. With sweat, and foam, and dust,
The huge dark face was grimed: his blood-red eyes
Savagely glared; his nostrils were spread out;
His mouth gaped wide; his huge chest rose and fell,
Breathing laboriously. Yet still he toiled;
Step after step, at every ponderous swing,
Advancing still; and through the shrinking mass,
Forcing a gory way.

Arbaces saw,
And toward him drove the steeds. The giant paused,—
For the far-flashing chariot caught his eye,—
And bellowed forth defiance. With a smile,
Arbaces heard; and, to his charioteer
The reins committing, bade him there abide:
His battle-axe then took; and, to the ground
Lightly outspringing, with deliberate step
Advanced; and through the swiftly opening ranks,
Moved to confront the foe. No word he spake;
But on the giant fixed his steady eye,
Keen as a sun-break from an opening cloud,
And toward him still advanced. A space all round,
On either side, the hosts from fight refrained;
In silence, and in wonder looking on.

As when the wild bull, in his frenzied rage,
Tears up the ground, and with his bellowing fills

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The echoing forest;—fire from out his eyes
He scatters; on his bulky flanks resounds
His fiercely lashing tail; now here, now there,
His sanguine balls he rolls, athirst to gore,
And seems all might of living thing to scorn;—
If, suddenly, the lion's voice he hears,
Or scents him in the wind,—at once is hushed
His stormy roar; the tearing foot stands fixed;
The huge bulk trembles; and the bounding heart
Flutters and stops,—even so, as nigher drew
The dreaded Mede, upon the giant came
A fear, and quaking. O'er his burning face
A pallor 'gan to steal; his blood-red eyes
Dilated, and the rolling orbs were fixed,
As by a spell. With lifted club he stood,
Prepared to strike; yet seemed that all his rage,
And half his strength were gone: his foamy lip
Hung quivering; and his huge knees 'gan to shake.

Within three paces now, the Mede stood still:
With air of one who marvels, but nought fears,
Fixed on the human tower a searching eye,
And, head to foot, surveyed him. Loosely held,
As not for stroke immediate, the great axe
Gleamed in his terrible hand. The glorious form
Stood all at rest,—like to a youthful god
Newly descended, with the light of heaven
Still shining from him, on some prodigy
Of earthly mould to gaze. The axe, at length,
Gently he grounded; on the handle leaned
His ample palm,—even as a traveller,
Who, journeying far, and meeting by the way
A fellow pilgrim, on his staff doth rest,
Brief colloquy to hold,—and, with a smile
Gathering about his lips, thus playfully
The marvelling foe addressed.

“Ere now, methinks,
Better should we have each the other known;
For message not unfrequent, to and fro,
Hath passed between us; and, in closer ties
To bind ourselves,—nay as the arbiters

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Of two great nations' destinies,—hast thou
A conference oft invited. Shame to me,
That, to thy friendly greeting, a slow ear
Still have I turned! But gentle fortune now
Befriends me; and, my fault o'erlooking, gives
The boon which justly had been forfeited.
Here, then, at last we meet; and now may well
These great contending empires knit in peace;
Resolving, as the reasons stronger prove,
If the eternal city shall be ours,
Or we your bondslaves be. But not at ease
Thou seemest; and that iron club, methinks,
So long uplifted, even to arm like thine,
Must be a burthen. Rest thee then a space,
Ere thou reply; for truly is thy breath
Laborious; and thy sinews seem unstrung,
As by great toil: meantime, be well assured,
No vantage shall be taken cunningly
To do thee wrong.”

The last word from his lips
Not yet had parted, when, outstriding wide,
On came the monster,—like a thunderbolt,
Driving his hideous engine; at one blow
Resolved, like worm to crush him.

Swifter far
Sprang on the Mede;—a lightning glance—a crash,—
Wide flew the loosened club,—one staggering step
Recoiled the bulk,—one moment tottering stood,
Corpse-like, with eye-balls turning inwardly,
And dropping jaw; then, with a heavy squelch,
And clang of battered armour, in a heap,
Sank, like a crumbling ruin, thunder-struck.

Through the thick breast-plate driven, deep in his chest
The axe was buried; bringing with it death,
Immediate, and scarce felt.

An instant gazed,
In silence and strange awe, the breathless throngs;
Then a wild clamor raised; a double din,
Of triumph, and of fear. A second look

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On their fallen champion, no Assyrian eye
Lingered to give: with faces terror-struck,
In headlong haste they fled. The exulting Medes
Pealed forth loud cries of victory; and, with hearts
Burning as with a fire just shot from heaven,
Again flew on to battle.

From the corpse,
His axe Arbaces drew; then, to his car
Swiftly returning, sprang, and stood on high,
And sent his voice abroad. The moment now,
Long waited, had arrived. One backward glance
Toward the mound's top he cast; his arm upflung;
Then headlong on the foe, with shout on shout
Urging assault, his fiery horses drove
Deep in the midst.

With keen eye looking forth,
That signal the Arabian king beheld:
Flew to his car,—sprang up,—his lance waved high,—
With clear voice crying onset, rent the air,—
And instantly, beneath thick clouds of horse,
Terribly thundering; and the roll and jar
Of wheels rebounding, the firm champaign shook.

As when a mountain torrent, at the gorge
Of hill-girt dell, sole outlet, is dammed up
By the fallen glacier,—swollen by heavy rains,
And the quick melting of an age's snows,
All the deep basin of the vale it fills;
Till, far beneath the flood, even loftiest trees,
Like some gigantic sea-weed, upright stand;
And, with the ponderous weight of waters, groans
The frozen barrier. Yet still down, down, down,
The impetuous torrent shoots: still more and more
The mountain cauldron deepens. Night to day,
And day to night, and week to week succeeds;—
Yet still with gathering volume pours the stream;
With stronger heave, against their prison gate,
The piled-up waters thrust. The whole huge bulk
Of ice-cliff, base to summit, yields at last:
With noise as when the earthquake grinds his jaws,
Is forced from its hard grip. Inch after inch,

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Tottering, it drags along,—hill-sides, and ground,
Like Titan harrow tearing; till, at once,
Loosed altogether,—as from precipice hurled,
Crashing, and shattering, headlong down it goes;
And with stupendous, and appalling burst,—
As when the fountains of the deep broke up,
To drown the world,—forth leaps the roaring flood!
Swift as the arrow's flight, it shoots along,—
Thunder, and foam! As when, from hell-gates 'scaped,
Millions of Spirits, fierce and terrible,
With clang of arms, and God-defying shouts,
Leagues off made Chaos tremble,—such the din
As on its way that watery hell doth hold!
Flocks, men, trees, houses, rocks, like withered boughs
Before the hurricane, it whirls along;
And the green fertile vale, at one fell swoop,
Becomes a torn and ghastly wilderness;—
Even with such uproar, such o'erwhelming force,
The long chained myriads of the Median host,
Chariots, and horse, in the same moment loosed,
Pealed thunder o'er the plain: and, where they passed,
Such havoc, and dire ruin, left behind!

Nebaioth, who the rushing deluge saw,
And knew destruction coming,—from his steed
Hastily leaping, to the horses sprang,
Of the queen's chariot; wheeled them round, and cried,
“Back through the gate! a flood is coming on
That will o'erwhelm us!” To the charioteer,
With eye of fire, and clarion voice, thus he;
But, in an angry tone, the heroic queen,
Upstanding, said, “False soldier! loose the reins;
I will not fly.”

“On! on! 'tis madness all!”
Franticly cried he; “Oh! most royal dame,
'Tis for Assyria, as for thee, I plead,—
Forgive me, but thou shalt not” . . . . . .

Suddenly dumb,
And horror-struck, there stopped he; for the queen
Staggered, and backward sank: in her fair neck,
A shaft had glanced; and the bright crimson stream

166

Stained her pure ivory skin. No word she spake;
No cry sent forth: her eye a moment gleamed;
Her countenance paled; a faintness loosed her joints;
But, ere Nebaioth to the chariot sprang,
Her garment she had torn, and, with firm hand,
Pressed to the wound. Her face again was bright,
Though wild and anxious. Turning quickly then
To the young warrior, who, with eager spring,
Beside her stood, and his broad shield thrust forth,
'Gainst farther harm to guard her,—thus she spake:
“Pardon, Nebaioth, my intemperate words,
Ungrateful, and unjust. But now no time
For useless speech. The wound is but skin-deep;
I fear it not, scarce feel: yet the red stream
Shows ghastly; and the sight might more disturb,
Than could my presence cheer the soldiers now.
Though all unwilling, then, I quit the field,
And seek the king. Perchance his bleeding queen
May stir, or shame him to the fight even yet.
But thou, Nebaioth, art an arm of strength:
Thy place is in the front of battle now;
Not by a woman's side: at once then go:
Go—I conjure, command thee.”

As she spake,
Behind them, nor far distant, the dire cloud
Of Median thunder o'er the Assyrians broke.

On the pale countenance of the shuddering queen,
One moment, with wild eye, Nebaioth looked;
One glance upon the hell of war shot back;
Then seized her garment's hem; unto his lips
Fervently pressed it; from the chariot sprang,
And plunged into the fight.

At rapid speed
Flew on the royal car,—shot through the gate;
And gained the palace.

Horror-struck, the king
His bleeding queen beheld. The word was given;
His arms were donned; his chariot was brought forth;
His guard was summoned; every fighting man
Within the walls, that might to battle go:

167

And, all for vengeance burning, to the field,
Furiously on they rode.

His coming forth
Was seen, and noised abroad; and through his host
New soul was wakened. Desperately, like men
Who value life at nought,—while yet their strength
Upheld them, firm they stood, and wound for wound
Deemed blest exchange; nay, death itself cheap price
For death of enemy. On, from rank to rank,
Flew on the frenzied king; with arm, and voice,
With loud command, encouragement, and threat,
Promise of spoil, and honor, and renown,
Impelling to the combat.

But, too late
His tardy coming; and too strong the foe!
Day waned; and darkness gathered over head,
While backward still his wearied troops were driven,
And still the Medes pressed on.

Wide stood the gates;
The routed myriads poured like torrents in.
Thicker the darkness grew; that friend from foe
Might scantly be distinguished. Struck with fear,
The king retired. The Median trumpets blew
The signal of recall. No answering blast
The Assyrians sounded; but, with jaded step,
Speechless and panting, thronged into the walls.

Deeper, and deeper fell the Stygian night:
The sky was blotted out; the solid earth
Was black, and formless. Not a breath of air
Fanned the hot gloom; no freshening rain-drop fell;
But they who nigh the river's margin stood,
Heard the dark waters, with unwonted force,
As at a flood's commencement, hurrying on.

By slow degrees, the silence of the night
Fell on the city, and the gory plain.
A solitary torch moved here and there,
Seeking the slain, or wounded.

Rapidly,
The watch-fires in the Median camp burst forth:
And, soon, the broad red blaze to heaven's dusk vault

168

Upshooting,—on it darkly quivering hung,
Like to a blood-stained curtain o'er the dead.

Midnight—and all was hushed: the untended fires
To dark red embers smouldered, and went out;
The watchers were asleep: nor aught was heard
Beneath heaven's canopy, save one low sound,
O'er plain and city rising,—the deep groan
Of dying thousands, and the mourner's wail!

169

BOOK THE TWENTY-FIRST.

All night funereal darkness pall'd the earth;
The worn-out soldiers slumbered heavily:
The anxious chiefs themselves, in grave-like sleep,
Till morn lay locked; nor dreamed of victory,
Or of defeat. But a yet thicker gloom
Hung o'er the spirit of Assyria's king:
His strength again was gone; his eyes closed not;
The fearful present, in yet worse to-come,
As in a black, inevitable gulf,
Seemed hurrying on to plunge him. To and fro,
His restless limbs he tossed; oft rose, and trod,
With quick and anxious step, the velvet floor:
Anon would stop; with wild and haggard look,
Glare out on vacancy; then to his couch
Again sink down; and, vainly as before,
Invoke oblivious sleep.

As restlessly,
The wounded queen her fragrant pillow pressed;
But not in like despair. Her eye was bright;
Her breathing quick; her heart with fever throbbed.
High were her hopes, and cheerful was her voice,
As, to her listening dames, all eagerly,
She visioned things to come. At length she rose;
Round her majestic person a rich robe
Of crimson silk, with gold embroidered, threw;
Her beauteous feet in silken slippers shod;
And to the chamber of the restless king,

170

With light firm step, advanced. Him, wrapped in gloom,
From out the window looking toward the plain,
She found; and, with a gay and hopeful voice,
Essayed to cheer him.

“Wherefore now cast down,
O king,” she said; and on his shoulder placed
Her fair, but burning hand: “lo! all the day,
With numbers fewer far, against the foe
Thy hosts have stood; and have not utterly,
Even so, been vanquished: then, dear lord, take heart;
And, on the morrow, let thine arms again
Blaze forth, and wither them. The gods, be sure,
Will give thee now the victory.”

In her face,
With sorrow looked he; marked her florid cheek,
Her brightly beaming eye, her hurried speech;
Felt her dry, burning hand; and knew, too well,
That fever fired her. With a solemn voice,
Then thus he answered.

“To thy bed return.
The leech hath warned thee that, by sleep unsoothed,
Thy wound may rancorous grow. Speak then no more:
Yet bid thy handmaids give thee cooling drinks;
For thy blood boileth in thee; and thy thoughts
Are all disordered.”

Saying thus, he rose;
Clasped her reluctant hand, and on her cheek
A kiss of pity pressed. Nought answered she,—
By those cold words displeased,—but turned and went.
The downcast king again his chamber paced,
And heavy sighs breathed forth.

But soon, once more,
Gently the door was opened. In her hand
Bearing a dulcimer, Azubah stood,—
Her anxious face enquiring timidly
If she might enter. Silently awhile
She waited; then, with soft, beseeching voice,
“May I not sing to thee, O king,” she said,

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“And pour into thy sorrowing heart the balm
Of music, and sweet poesy?”

But her
Thus answered he: “Not now: to every sound
That once could comfort bring, mine ears are deaf:
My thoughts are troubled, and my heart is sad.
Then leave me: I would be alone.”—He paused;
Upon her loving face gazed mournfully;
Then thus, with pitying accent, spake again.
“But who to thee, alas! shall comfort bring,
When the king's hour hath passed! and unto whom
Wilt thou for refuge fly!”

With hurried words,
And quivering lip, she answered. “Unto none!
Whither thou go'st, there also will I go;
And to none else will I for comfort seek.”
He kissed her cheek, but spake not; and she went.

Then fell upon him a yet darker gloom;
And hastily he sent forth messengers,
Commanding wizards, and Chaldean seers,
To come before him. But afraid were all,
And hid themselves. Some bade their servants say,
“Our master in a grievous sickness lies;”
And some, “Behold our lord is this day dead!”
So that not one among them might be found.

Perplexed and wrathful grew the despot then:
But, his rage curbing, once more he sent forth,
And Barak summoned. Nought afeard was he;
But rose at once; his sable vestments donned;
And soon, erect and proud, before the king,
Waiting his bidding, stood.

“Thou tremblest not;”
After long pause, while with a fiery glance,
From head to foot he scanned the audacious priest,
The king displeased began. “Fearest thou not then?
Hast thou forgotten how, when last we spake,
Thy hateful life, too justly forfeited,
Hung as on gossamer thread? What hinders now
That I bid cut the line, and let thee sink

172

Down to the hell thou'rt doomed to? Answer, priest;
Say, wherefore should'st thou live.”

A gloomy smile
Curled the pale prophet's lip, as, all unmoved,
Thus answered he. “My life, O king, by heaven,
Not man, may be commanded. At thy word,
Might the frail thread be severed, of a truth,
Ere now the worms had gnawed me. But I stand
Unfearing; for my time not yet is come;
Nor darest thou speed it. Once again, O king,
I warn thee,—thine, and mine, one hour to die;
By Fate irrevocably so decreed;
So by the gods pronounced; nor, by man's might,
One moment to be changed. While I shall live,
Thou shalt live also: slay me,—and, that hour,
Thy grave will open.”

While he spake, the king
An inward shudder felt; yet, proud of heart,
Affected scorn, and promptly thus replied.
“O'er much the gods then honor thee. Methinks
A monarch's death should stand alone in the year,
Like to some great eclipse; that all the world
Him solely might lament. But, cunning seer,
If so far in the future thou canst look,—
Lapse of long years, I trust,—deign, then, to gaze
Upon to-morrow's birth; and tell the event
Just coming into life. What if again,
With the next dawn, I lead my army forth,—
Shall we be victors? Answer—if thou darest:
But, first, bethink thee;—for, as true, or false,
Thou speakest now, so shalt thou live, or die.
And, may the gods, in my extremest need,
Aid, or destroy me, as this vow I keep!
If false thy prophecy, ere the next day's sun
Rise o'er the mountains, thou shalt die the death!
Then, ere thou answer, pause.”

While yet he spake,
The prompt reply began. “No need for pause,
Forethought, or caution. Mighty as thou art,
King of Assyria, mightier are the gods.

173

Their doom thou canst not alter; their command
Hast heard, and disobeyed. Yet, once again,
Thus I proclaim it. Lead thine armies forth;
But, ere one step they move,—within thy court
Be the pile ready; and the victim sure.
If, then, the day go with thee,—as the Powers,
Approving, may decree,—it shall be well;
And still thy child may live. But, if the foe
Till noon prevail,—then surely may'st thou know
The gods are wroth with thee, and do require
The blood of expiation. Let the steam
Of sacrifice then to their nostrils mount;
And they, well pleased, may turn the face of wrath
Upon thine enemies: on thy side may fight;
And utterly destroy them from the earth.

But, if 'gainst heaven thou harden still thy heart,
Still do deny the sacrifice,—behold!
Thy kingdom shall pass from thee evermore!
Upon thy throne thine enemy shall sit,
And banquet in thy palaces! Thy queen,
Thy daughter, shall they take for concubines!
Thy sons shall put to death! thy cities seize,
Thy treasures, for a spoil. And thou, O king!
Unto thine enemies shalt be a sport,
A hissing, and a mockery! and, last,
Shalt ignominiously be put to death!”

With deep and awful tone the wizard spake;
Nor could the king reply; for wrath, and pride,
By supernatural dread were mastered quite,
That even his soul felt shudder. A brief space
The prophet stood; fixed on him his stern eye;
Then turned, and went his way.

Down sank the king,
Grief-smitten, to his couch: and all the night
Moaned, and wept bitterly. Three days and nights,
With eyes scarce closing, did he weep and groan:
To neither man, nor woman, would he speak;
Nor would be comforted.

But, when the morn
Of the fourth day was come, again he bade,

174

And Barak stood before him. Till the noon,
Sat they in conference; and the monarch's face,
Like a dusk cloud by quivering lightning touched,
With ghastly light 'gan glimmer. Not the less,
On the gaunt prophet's brow, as he retired,
Hung the dark frown; for he the despot knew
Uncertain as the wind. The king saw not,
But, with a feverish gaiety, sent forth,
And Salamenes summoned.

When the prince
Before him came,—the monarch, with bright eye,
And eager utterance, questioned of the host,
Their numbers, and their spirit. Marvelling much
At that so sudden kindling, with sad tone,
Thus Salamenes answered.

“Most dread lord!
The words that I must speak, are bitterness:
Yet be not angered with me. Of the force
That late so joyously and strong went forth,
Full two score thousand sleep! Dejection dark,
Silence, and terror, o'er the living hang.
Within the city, restless prophets roam,
Predicting dire events: and, nigh the walls,
Each night the howl of desert beasts is heard.
Strange Things, 'tis said, in darkness walk the earth,
And flit along the air. No sun by day
Now gladdens us; but a dense roof of cloud,
Tomb-like, o'ervaults the earth. Some cry aloud,
‘The king is with the dead, or surely now
Unto his people had he shown himself:’
And some, disheartened, stealthily have fled,
And with the rebel leagued. Oh, mighty lord!
If thou in this extremity rise not
To strengthen us, Assyria will be lost!”

Him, with flushed look, the impatient monarch heard;
And hastily replied: “Dreamers, and fools,
Have all the rest infected,—ay, even thee;
For, like the wind in hollow sepulchre,
Soundeth thy voice; and corpse-like is thy hue.
But wild beasts to their deserts shall return;
False prophets be made silent; graves shall hold

175

Their tenants back; and once again the sun
Shall shine upon imperial Nineveh.
I will arise: I will go forth again;
And trample down mine enemies. But now,
Haste thou away: take from my treasures gold;
And largely unto every soldier give:
Then, on the morrow, ere the dawn shall peep,
Lead thou the host in silence from the walls;
And pour destruction on the enemy.
And let the heralds everywhere proclaim,
‘Thus saith the king: be joyful, and be bold:
Now shall ye surely triumph; for the gods,
That have been wroth with us, will be appeased;
And give the audacious rebel to your swords.’
Let them cry also, ‘Be ye not cast down,
For that the king to battle goeth not:
He a great sacrifice doth offer up,—
So by heaven willed,—and may not lead you on:
But toward the field still will his eye be turned;
And he the brave will honor.’”

With firm voice,
These words he spake; and greatly was the heart
Of Salamenes gladdened. Forth he went;
The princes, and the captains, summoned all;
And the king's words made known. Gold then he took;
That unto every soldier might be given,
With liberal measure; and the monarch's will
Throughout the camp proclaimed. So was the host
Made joyful; and, with strength and courage new,
Did every man for battle nerve himself.

But, when the night was come, thick gloom again
Fell on the spirit of Assyria's lord.
Throughout the palace had the word been sent,
That, on the morrow, Barak, as himself,
By all should be obeyed,—what act soe'er
Might be by him commanded. Like to one
Who by a precipice's brink doth stand,
Waiting the sign he dare not disobey,
To leap down headlong,—even so strength-bereft,

176

So by an iron destiny o'erruled,
Felt earth's proud master now! With strong desire,
Yet vainly, 'gainst the future did he strive
His thoughts to barrier: vainly did he long
In grave-like sleep to shut out consciousness
Of life and misery. To wine, at length,
For aid he flew; and deeply did he quaff,
To bring oblivion: yet his eyes closed not;
And wilder grew his thoughts. At length he called,
And bade that Dara, with the harp, should come,
To sing and play before him.

In brief time,
The minstrel entered. Glad was then the king;
And said; “Strike now with vigorous hand the lyre;
And pour a song of battle; for my heart
Is heavy, and dark thoughts oppress my soul.”

So Dara, with a hand of fire, o'erswept
The ringing chords; and lifted up his voice.

Deeply, the while, Sardanapalus drank
The cheering nectar; and said inwardly,
“Heart, be thou joyful: what hast thou to fear?”

But, as the moon, through dense clouds laboring,
When winds are loud, and heavy is the rain,—
One moment, with clear disk looks joyously
From her deep cave; but, in the next, again
Is by the rolling sea of vapour quenched,—
So, o'er the monarch's soul, if, for a while,
A glad light broke,—did blacker thoughts again
Sweep o'er, and bury it in thicker night.

At length, he bade to hush the harp awhile;
But, when the strings were silent, from without,
A sound was heard; and wrathfully he cried;
“What noise is that? Who of his wretched life
So weary is, that thus he dares disturb,
With his vile din, the slumber of the king?
Go, and command a silence.”

Bowing low,
Thus Dara answered: “Gracious lord! the sound
Is of artificers who build the pile
Of sacrifice. As through the northern court
Hither I came, I saw, and questioned them.

177

Through all the night must they their labor ply,—
So answered they,—for, at the hour of noon,
The offering will be made.”

A bitter pang
Shot through the monarch, as these words he heard;
And hastily he spake: “Touch then again
The harp; but gently now; and with such airs
As may invite to slumber. Let the tones
Steal dream-like through the air; and make no pause
Till sleep come o'er me. Then, when thou shalt see,
That a deep slumber wraps me,—go thou forth;
And, unto them who wait without, thus say;
‘Let no man, on the peril of his life,
Dare to approach the chamber of the king,
Till thither summoned; neither through the night,
Nor on the morrow: whoso disobeys,
At once shall die the death.’” Thus having said,
A mighty goblet he drained hastily;
Sank on his couch; and closed his eyes for sleep.

Dara, with hand untiring, from the harp
Called breathing tones, and maze-like harmonies;
Such as a quiet spirit might have lapped
In dreams elysian. Now, they seemed to float,
Like some ethereal choir, in upper air;
Now, murmured like the moaning of the wind
In the dim forest: now, again came on,
Stealthily creeping, like a streamlet's voice
Borne on a gentle breeze; and, now, died off,
As from their own excess of sweetness faint.

But, to the monarch slumber came not soon.
Twice, when oblivion o'er his sense 'gan steal,
Suddenly up he sprang, with look like his
Who sees some horrible Shadow. From the cup
Again, as with a thirst unquenchable,
Then deeply drank he; and again outstretched
His trembling limbs for sleep. His eyes, at length,
Closed heavily: the world was all shut out.
The external perished; but the mind within,
Like to a buried fire, still hotly burned.
The tortured soul, her earthly organs still

178

Moved, though unconsciously; his hands, outspread,
Trembled, and clutched, as at some fearful thing;
His body shook; his breath was hard and quick;
His face with sweat bedewed; his quivering lips
Low muttered words gave forth.

But, more and more,
Sleep gained the mastery; till, as with a chain,
Fast bound the body lay. Yet Dara feared
O'ersoon to leave him; lest the warring mind
Should break the fetter; and his wrath should rise,
To find himself alone. So, hushed as death,
Long time he waited; on the monarch's face
Anxiously gazing.

Nought marked he, at first,
The tremulous words that from him 'gan to come:
But, starting soon, his face like marble grew:
His eyes stood wide; his slackening jaw fell down:
With arms extended, and one foot advanced,
Breathless he stood, as though, from crown to heel,
His body were all ear. The last death-spasm
More rigid scarce had made him; but alas!
Far less had tortured, than those dreadful words
Which had his soul transpierced. The hideous truth
Stood bare before him! Piecemeal was it told;
Yet clear, as if by sunbeams written down,
Stood the black whole revealed. He knew, at last,—
And the great horror seemed to stop his heart;
Curdle his blood, and dry his marrow up,—
He knew the victim for the sacrifice!

Stiffened like stone, long stood he; but, at length,
Desperately resolute, toward the tyrant stole:
Watched anxiously, till the relaxing hand,
And slower breathing, marked a heavier sleep;
Then from the finger, with a cautious touch,
The signet-ring drew off; and, with a step
Noiseless, and slow, as panther's when he glides
To spring upon his prey, the chamber left.

The charge he gave without, on pain of death,
That none, unsummoned, either on that night,
Or on the morrow, should the threshold cross,

179

Of the king's chamber: with a quick foot then,
And quicker beating heart, the victim sought,—
The royal maiden, of her hideous doom
Unconscious, as the kid that blithely skips
Within the tiger's spring.

Her, all alone,
And wakeful, found he,—to the dulcimer
Singing a gentle hymn, ere, for the night,
Should close her tender lids. With face like death,
But gleaming eyes, and words of passionate fire,
The fearful tale he told: upon his knee
Sank trembling; and, while tears in torrents poured,
Conjured her instantly those fatal walls
To leave behind; and, in the sheltering arms
Of her loved mother's sister, far away,
Find sure repose, and safety.

Horror-struck,
Nehushta paled, and shuddered; and, awhile,
Speechless and strengthless stood. “Abide thou here,
Belovëd friend,” at length, with tremulous lip,
She whispered: “Thy dread words the queen must hear:
She will in all direct me.”

Tremblingly,
She took her way.—The mother o'er her child
Wept bitter tears.

At midnight, through a gate
That faced the south, a small, but chosen band
Of mail-clad horsemen went: and, in the midst,
Two roomy chariots. They who rode within,
Were veilëd women, all in dark array.
No word was spoken. With dejected heads
They sat; and, ever and anon, a sob,
Ill stifled, might be heard. Their going forth,
No man opposed: the magic signet-ring,
Token of delegated power supreme,
None dared to question. With a beating heart,
But voice and look imperative, that sign
Still Dara showed; and every man obeyed.

The watchers at the gate, amazed beheld;
But bowed the head, and flung the portal wide.

180

Forth passed the train: again the hinges moaned
'Neath their huge load; the massive bolts again
Shot in their staples. Onward went the troop,
Slowly, and steadily.

Long their horse-tread,
Still lessening, from the battlement was heard;
And great the marvel was, how, through that gloom,
Might path be found. At length the trampling ceased;
And they who marked it, to each other said,
“They stop perforce: the darkness shuts them in,
Like a black curtain; and turn back they must,
Or tarry till the day-break.” But a ray
Of red light, as they thus debating stood,—
As 'twere an earth-star, far upon the plain,—
Gleamed suddenly; another rose; a third;
And yet a fourth appeared. Then came again,
But soft and faint as dropping of the rain
On the young grass of spring, the sound of hoofs,
Leisurely treading; and the listeners said,
“No,—they have kindled torches, and go on.
Strange hour for travel! But the king's command
Waits not the morning, if he wills the night.”

And then again they marvelled, guessing each
What might the cause of that strange journey be:
And, as they talked, still on the four red lights,
Slowly progressing, did they fix their eyes;
Till, as the distance lengthened, into one
The four converged; one dim and fading beam,
Like an expiring star. It sank at length,
In that deep sea of darkness swallowed up:
And the long silent gazers turned away,
And sighed, they knew not wherefore.

All this time,
Racked by terrific dreams, the monarch lay;
In few hours seeming to live months of woe.
But, toward the morning, pleasant visions came.
The Israelitish seer, whom he had slain,
Appeared before him; and, with smiling face,
And gentle voice, thus seemed to speak to him.

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“Arise; lead forth thy hosts,—for now is heaven
At thy obedience pleased; and it may be
The child shall not be asked for at thy hands.”

Thus having spoken, the pale prophet passed;
And, with gay voice, and cheerful countenance,
Nehushta came, and said, “Belovëd sire!
Go forth, and scatter all thine enemies:
For, when thy daughter on the altar-stone
Shall lie, a willing victim,—then, behold!
The gods shall make thee terrible as Death;
That all shall sink before thee.”

Having said,
She also vanished: and another shade,
The spirit of his mother, stood and spake.
“The glory of this mighty Nineveh
Shall not yet perish. Get thee up, my son;
Gird on thy sword, and take thy spear and shield,
And in thy chariot drive against thy foes.
Like reeds before the mammoth, shall they fall
At thy on-coming: and the beauteous child,
Untouched, shall, from the stone of sacrifice,
Be given into thine arms.”

The lofty brow
Of the pale spectre-queen shone luminous,
While thus she spake; and in the monarch's breast
Seemed its own fire to pour. In vision then,
Forth went he; and his enemies, like dust
Before the whirlwind, scattered. With his lance,
Right through the heart Belesis he transfixed;
And with his falchion, even from crown to breast,
Clove the terrific Mede. Then did he shout
Exultingly; and all his myriads raised
Clamors of triumph, peal succeeding peal,
That, with the deafening uproar, he awoke.

But, when clear sense returned, behold! the sword
Was in his hand; and on his feet he stood,
Facing the field of battle. Giddiness, then,
At that strange wonder, seized upon his brain;
Till, like to one intoxicate, he reeled,
And sank upon the couch. But, in a while,
It passed away; and on his dream he thought,

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And much was comforted. Then cheerfully
He called; and, when his servants entered, said;
“Command ye that my chariot be prepared;
My bow, and quiver, and spears numerous:
Bring hither armour, helmet, sword, and shield;
For, ere the day shall dawn, will I go forth,
And scatter all mine enemies. Yet, first,
To Salamenes a swift messenger
Send instantly,—and let him say, ‘Arise,
For the king calleth on thee.’”

But the prince,
No summons needing, entered as he spake;
And, seeing him, well pleased, the monarch thus.
“Brave soldier! ever watchful; and most brave,
When peril threatens most! Thy mind had I,
Long since yon rebels had to deserts fled,
Or rotted in their graves. But now, with speed,
Arouse the host, ere yet the night be spent;
And lead them to the plain; but, silently,—
That, all unlooked for as a thunder-stone
From clear sky, we may strike. And let the word
To all be passed, ‘This day the king himself
Will lead you on to victory; for so,
In visions of the night, by heaven sent down,
Hath it been shown to him. The gods themselves
Have chosen a victim for the sacrifice:
But, ere the smoke shall to their nostrils mount,
From out the clouds will their right hands be seen,
Hurling destruction on our enemies.’”

Even while he spake, impatiently he 'gan
His radiant arms to don: his countenance
With fire unnatural flamed; and his full eyes
Gleamed lamp-like. Salamenes, wonder-struck
At that so sudden kindling, gladly thus.
“Thy armies, mighty king! upon the plain
Already are assembled; and but wait
The coming of thy servant: for I said
To the chief captains, ere they led them forth,
‘When ye have ranked your soldiers on the field,
Tarry in silence till I come to you.

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'Tis to the presence of the king I go;
For, haply, even yet may he arise,
And lead us in the battle: so the hearts
Of all shall gather courage, and our arms
With double vigour strike.’”

“Well hast thou done!”
Replied the monarch; “Speed thou then away;
And cry, ‘The king comes forth; and Victory
Within his chariot rideth.’”

Glad at heart,
Went Salamenes; and more hastily
The monarch armed himself. Anon came some,
Who said, “The royal chariot is at hand;
But no where may be found the charioteer.
Perchance prince Dara, deeming that the king
This day would rest, hath to the field gone forth.”

“Presumptuous boy!” exclaimed the indignant king;
“But now no time for question; he shall rue
This over-boldness. Meantime, send in haste,
And summon the chief captain of my guard,
Prince Tartan: he this day shall rule the steeds.
Send also on the instant, and command
That Barak come before me.”

In brief space,
The priest appeared; and, when they stood alone,
Him thus the king addressed. “To thee full power
Have I this day appointed: as mine own,
Will thy command o'er all hold sway supreme.
But hearken now: and, as the morrow's dawn
Thou would'st behold, obey. If but one hair
Of that fair child, unbidden, thou shalt harm,—
So speed me heaven, as I thy hateful limbs
Will stretch, yet living, on the altar-fire,
And burn thee piecemeal. For the hour of noon.
Let all be ready: but, though direr rout
Than ever yet o'er battle-field hath swept,
Shall drive us,—yet, till thou the signal see,
Touch not the victim. Now, be this the sign:
Mark, and remember. If, above the tower

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Of Nisroch thou behold a blood-red flag,—
Then seat the child beside the altar-stone:
But, after—mark me,—see thou touch her not,
Till one hour farther on his downward way
The sun hath journeyed. If thou then behold,—
As surely wilt thou, else the heavens have lied,—
That for our side the battle 'gins to turn;
Then, let the maiden forthwith be set free,
And with all honor to her chamber led.
There will she wait her conquering sire's return:
And there will he, with love, and gratitude,
Boundless as ocean overflowing, seek
How best he may requite her. Little fear
That she o'ermuch may ask. So let her know.”

“Thy will, most mighty king,” the priest replied,
“In all shall be obeyed. But, if thy hope
Be thwarted; if the gods be still displeased;
And, though the victim by the altar sit,
Turn not the day against thine enemy,—
Demanding still the sacrifice complete” . . . . . .

“Curs'd priest! thou seek'st in vain to torture me!”
Fire flashing from his eyes, roared out the king;
“Demons, not gods, were they, so to demand.
It is impossible; and heaven were hell,
If this could be! Harm her,—and thou shalt lie
Ten years a dying! But no more. My will
Exactly know'st thou; strictly be it done.”

Thus having sternly spoken, he went forth;
And through the Nisroch gate drove rapidly.

As yet was but faint twilight. At slow pace,
And silently, the mighty mass of men
Cloud-like moved onward.

In dark shadow lay
The Median camp,—the watch-fires all burnt out,—
And joyful was the spirit of the king;
Of victory assured, and full revenge.

185

BOOK THE TWENTY-SECOND.

But not all unprepared were found the Medes.
With restless foot, Belesis through the night,
Still to and fro had trodden,—toward the vault
Opaque, with anxious eye oft looking up,—
And still his thought had been; “Bright ministers!
How have we sinned against you, that thus long
Ye hide the glory of your brows divine!”

But, toward the middle watch, in the deep hush
Of earth and heaven, to his quick ear there came,
Distant and faint, a sound like march of hosts;
Horse-tramp, and hollow roll of chariot-wheels,
Cautiously moving. Straightway, to the tent
Where slept Arbaces, swiftly then he walked;
Unbidden entered; touched him on the breast,
And said, “Arise; a sound far off is heard
Of wheels, and trampling feet.”

At once upsprang
The ever-ready Mede; and from the tent
Went forth to listen. In a moment then,
Smiting his thigh, “Away! Away!” he said;
“For, of a surety, do they gather now
To fall upon us. Speed from tent to tent,
And rouse the captains; and let every man
That is awakened, instantly arise,
And wake his fellows; but in silence all.
Surely the gods this day into our hands
Will give our enemies; in their own trap

186

The subtle ones will fall!”

While yet he spake,
Came sound of horse approaching. Soon to earth
The riders leaped, and to Arbaces thus.
“The watchers on the outskirt of the camp
Hear, from the walls, a sound of numerous feet,
Horse-tramp, and roll of wheels. Perchance the foe
Gathers for onset.” Others also came,
The self-same message bearing; and to all
Was given command, with caution to arouse,
And with hushed voice, the sleeping soldiery.

So, at the first gray dawn, in full array
Of battle stood the host; and silently
'Gan toward the city move.

With rapid foot
Light climbed the heavens; so that, when little way
They had advanced, behold! the Assyrian force,
Like a dark deluge spread o'er all the plain,
Against them swiftly moving.

The same beam,
To the Assyrians showed the coming on
Of their too watchful foe: yet, undismayed,
Sardanapalus,—who with proudest state,
In a right gorgeous chariot throned on high,
Rode in the front,—stood up; and with a tone
Cheering and strong, cried out; “Assyrians, stay;
And, ere the battle join, let us uplift
Our voices in a loud triumphant hymn:
For this day surely shall our enemies
Perish before us.”

At sign given, stood still
The human deluge: and, with powerful voice
Himself began the song; the whole vast host
Sang with him joyfully; and every heart
Burned to begin the combat.

At that sound,
Astonished were the Medes; and man to man
In whisper 'gan to speak; “What may this mean?
Hath then the enemy gathered sudden strength,
That, like a giant glorying in his might,

187

Thus he comes forth rejoicing?” With that thought,
Came fear in hearts of many. But, at once,
Arbaces in his lofty chariot stood,
And sent abroad his voice. Like to the sound
Of a great trumpet on a high tower blown,
Far round it spread: and, like a sunbeam shot
On a dark lake, even so it brightened up
The lowering brow, and warmed the pallid cheek.
With the proud enemy joining, as in scorn,
He that same ardent hymn of battle sang:
And, fired by sudden gladness, every voice
Of all his myriads caught the martial strain,
And fervently out-poured it. So, erelong,
Both hosts together pealed the warlike song;
Filling with sound, as with a mighty flood
Of water,—earth, and air, and heaven's rotund.

A long day's journey distant, 'mid the hills,
Stood shepherds, with their flocks: the wondrous sound
Awe-struck they heard; and, gazing upward, said,
“Surely the heavens are opened; and the voice
Of choiring gods comes down!”

When ceased the hymn,
The Assyrian monarch shook aloft his spear,
And cried vehémently, “Away! away!
Leap on your foes, and tread them as the dust!
Unto the coward everlasting shame!
To the brave eternal glory.”

His strong voice,
And ardent look, like an electric fire,
Glanced through the hearts of the impatient host:
And fiercely they sprang on. The chariots first,
And horse, awoke the thunder. Them to oppose,
Came horse, and chariots; and, in middle field,
Met, as with earthquake crash.

The men on foot,
On either side, meantime, at swiftest speed,
Like two fierce hurricanes encountering, flew;
And up at once the enormous tumult went,
Storming heaven's peaceful gates.

As two vast rocks,

188

From counter hills, by earthquake throes dislodged,—
With every moment of their downward course,
Still gather fury, crashing, tearing up,—
Crag on crag shattering,—bounding, leaping on,—
Smoking, and scattering fire,—till in the vale,
Midway, with noise of loudest thunder-clang,
Hard front to front they meet; and in a cloud
Of sulphurous fume, flame, dust, and fragments lie,—
Even with such frenzy, and such ruin, now,
Host 'gainst host shocked. The ground was strewed with dead;
With blood was deluged. Still, insatiate,
As though, to die, were better life to gain,
Man against man, with headlong violence flew;
Chariot 'gainst chariot dashed, and horse 'gainst horse.

Three hours, in fiery contest, thus they strove;
And greatly was Assyria's monarch then
Among the best distinguished. Like bright star
'Mid smaller lights, shone Salamenes too:
Still in the front of battle was he seen,
Cheering his soldiers' hearts, and leading on.

But Fate had marked him! Standing in his car,
With lance uplifted, aiming for the cast,—
An arrow, by a powerful arm impelled,
Rang on his cuirass; through the strong steel burst,
And in his side pierced deep. Down dropped his arm;
His flushed face paled; he sank into the car.
But, quickly, up he sat,—the hateful shaft
With both hands grasped; and, breath held, teeth close set,
Drew to uproot it. But, beneath the bone
The barb was locked. The mortal agony
Quelled soul, and strength; and, groaning, he fell back.

Again he rose; the arrow seized; broke short
The cumbering wood; and, once more standing up,
Cheered on the battle. But, with every word,
Keener the torture grew: his eye 'gan dim,
His breath to shorten, and his limbs to fail.
Again he sank; and, while unto the gods

189

For aid against the foe he mutely called,
A faintness, as of death, came over him;
And to the bottom of the roomy car,
A senseless mass, he fell.

With careful hand,
Again into the seat was he upraised:
But life seemed fled. Two sorrowing captains then
Supporting him, the chariot was wheeled round,
And toward the city driven. But many saw
The much-loved prince,—so oft their strength and stay
In hardest trials; and their souls grew sad,
Hope 'gan to fail them. Also of the Medes,
Saw many the great leader's fall; but them
Joy filled thereat, and more their ardor burned.

Nought knew, as yet, Assyria's frantic king
Of that dire loss. Fierce as a raging fire,
Storm-driven athwart a reedy wilderness,
In thickest fight he mixed; nor found the arm
That might control him. Dark Rabsaris met,
But fell before him,—by his furious spear
Down-smitten, senseless; nor with life had 'scaped,
But that the Bactrian, Ahab, in his car
Came toward them hotly driving. Him at once
The monarch knew; and, greedy for revenge,
The smaller prize disdained. Of all the host
Insurgent, him most bitterly did he hate;
For that, though aid unto Assyria's lord,
Faith, and submission, he had deeply vowed,—
Yet, in the valley of Melchisedek,
With rebels had he leagued; and on his king
Brought thus that dread night-onset, and foul rout.
Burning with vengeance then, a lance he raised,
And, while the Bactrian, bending for the throw,
Came onward, fiercely cast it. Through the air,
In the same moment, sang both stormy spears.
Struck on the breast, the king a moment reeled,
And was himself again; but Ahab fell,
As by the lightning smitten; nor to sense
Awakened, till, far distant borne away,

190

His charioteer the battered helm took off,
And bathed his anguished head.

Him deeming slain,
Greatly the king rejoiced; and, fired anew,
Plunged headlong in the midst. But nought availed
His fury and his might, to stem the tide
Against the Assyrians setting. Like a god,
Where'er he went, Arbaces ruled the fight:
Before him none could stand. His coming-on
Afar was seen; and, as the gathered clouds
Upon a mountain's summit, part, and fly,
At the uplifting of the tempest's voice,—
So, at his dreaded onset, all aghast,
Whole squadrons turned; and, each man as he might,
The appalling presence fled. From rank to rank,
The panic flew; and, over all the field,
With feebler arm, and foot retiring still,
The Assyrians waged the fight. Even round the king,
Were anxious faces seen; and many a look
Behind was cast, as if the massive walls
Alone could shelter. But, despising death,
Still foremost was the frenzied monarch seen,
Destruction dealing; and, with voice and look,
Inflaming to the combat.

Through the gate,
Meantime, with Salamenes flew the car.
His swoon had passed; but withered was his strength,
His torture terrible. Too well he knew
That death had struck him: yet, his own life reft,
Far less bemoaned, than those o'erwhelming woes,
On his loved country falling.

From a tower,
Looking intent, the queen beheld a car
From conflict speeding; and, therein, a chief,
Wounded, or slain: yet knew not, for a time,
That 'twas her brother. More and more, her frame
Shook with the heart-throbs, as upon her loomed
Distincter the dark terror. Crushingly
Fell the dire truth at last! With faltering voice,
She bade that messengers should hasten forth,

191

And to the royal palace bring the car;
With her own hands that she the prince might tend,
And with her presence cheer; then, hurriedly,
Descended,—climbed her chariot, and flew on.

But little knew she with what mortal aim
Death had her brother smitten; nor more thought,
How soon the fever-fire in her own veins,
To ashes would consume her.

The first glance
At the wan hero, through her very soul
Sent shuddering. On his brow the grave-gloom hung:
Death looked from out his eyes! Yet, not the less,
With cheerful mien, and voice, she spake to him
The words of comfort. Sending first, again
The leech to summon, with her own fair hands,
His armour she 'gan loosen. But, alas!
The cuirass stirred not,—by the deep-driven shaft
Nailed to the side! Though, like a withered leaf
'Neath wintry blast, in every limb she shook;
Yet still, with mother's care she tended him;
With low, sweet voice still whispered hopefully.

The leech arrived; but help had none to give;
“The arrow drawn, he dies!”

“Then draw at once,”
With a firm spirit, but a feeble voice,
The sufferer gasped,—“and let me be at rest!
Life now is worthless. Mighty Nineveh!
Thou too art dying! Few can be thy days,
And miserable. Ofttimes have I heard
That, in the hour of death, do visions come
Of things to be! 'Tis so: for I have seen
A leaguered city, wrapped in smoke, and flame.
Its palaces, and temples, cracked, and sank,—
The fire devoured it utterly!—And lo!
Where stood proud Nineveh, the queen of earth,
Lay blackened ashes only!”

As he paused,
His eyes glared wildly; one hard breath he drew;
Half started up, as though to catch a sound
Of sudden uproar on the battle-field,—

192

On his loved sister, then, a piteous look
Fixed for a moment,—struggled as to speak,—
Gasped, shuddered, groaned,—and backward sank, a corpse!

With reeling brain, and bursting heart, knelt down
The wretched queen, and o'er her brother wept.

The king, meantime, unconscious of his loss,
Like to a hunted tiger, hotly raged.
Dire was his agony; for now the hour
Of noon was nigh, and still his host gave way.

Oft on the gods, with frantic voice, he called;
Oft toward the palace cast a hurried look;
Mortally dreading, lest the hateful smoke
Of sacrifice should mount. His death-charged arm
Seemed as with strength of ten strong men to strike:
His voice was like the roar of the wild bull,
Frighting the desert: 'gainst him no man stood.

But, coming onward, in the blazing car
Which erst himself had ruled,—he saw, at length,
His mightiest foe at hand; and burned to meet
Him, whom, like pestilence, all others shunned:
For, on his dream he thought; and inly said,
“Surely the gods fulfil their promise now,
And give him to my sword!”

Him drawing nigh,
Arbaces saw; and, his gigantic spear
Uplifting, toward him drove. Before him fled
The scared Assyrians; leaving ample space;
Yet for their monarch trembling, as for him
Who, singly, and unarmed, the lion dares.

But nothing then Sardanapalus feared:
Body and soul concentring in the blow,
His lance he hurled; and triumphed as the clang
Of smitten armour answered. Tartan too,
Hastily casting on the hooks the reins,
His brazen javelin flung. The heavier spear
Of the dread Mede, in the same point of time,
Boomed through the air. The exulting king stopped short;
For, his thigh grazing, through strong oak, and brass,

193

Crashed the dread weapon; and, behind the car,
Showed its steel point, and half the quivering beam.

Mail, though of triple steel, had never stood
That fearful stroke: but, as Arbaces cast,
The swaying of his chariot balked the aim;
And his great enemy 'scaped. Not so himself:
For the king's spear, with frenzy's fury hurled,
Broke through the shield; and on his helmet struck
So fiercely, that his eyes shot fire, his arm
The lifted buckler lowered. The brazen lance
Of Tartan, in that moment, on the rim
Of the sloped shield impinging, upward glanced;
And on the helmet, just above the ear,
So harshly clanged, that, with the double jar,
Arbaces reeled: but, as the chariots passed,
Instantly rose again,—stood firmly up;
And, with a smile, from either side his shield
The spear-shaft breaking short, to Geber thus;
“Wheel round the horses swiftly as thou may;
That we a second time may prove the strength
Of our pleased adversary; and once more
Our own essay. But, when the cars draw nigh,
Let horse touch horse, and wheel in wheel be driven;
That so, with arm to arm, and face to face,
We better may contend.”

Yet no light task
Found Geber, the wind-footed steeds to turn:
For on both sides the human torrents rushed;
Host against host, like wave encountering wave:
And when, emerging from that troubled sea,
The Mede his eye cast round,—far off he saw,
The monarch's chariot; and on meaner foes,
Perforce his strength let loose.

The king not less
Ardently burned, his mightiest enemy
Again to front; but many weaker arms
Now threatened him; and task enough he found
Them to o'ermaster.

Still the tide of war
'Gainst him, o'er all the battle-field, set strong:

194

Yet would he not despair; for, on the gods
Continually he called; and, in his heart,
Said, “Surely they will yet deliver us;
And will not of a loving father ask
A loving daughter's blood!” From place to place
Flew he, encouraging, and leading on.
Strong and unwearied as the tempest's roar,
His voice was heard: where'er his helm was seen,
The heart of every warrior bolder grew;
And even the coward, shamed, again fought on.
But wheresoe'er he stood not, there the foe
Moved irresistibly.

The king beheld,
And 'gan to sicken. To the sky he looked:
No sun was there; the clouds were hard and dark.
“Not yet the hour,” he said; “not yet 'tis noon;
Nor have I given the signal. For his life,
The gloomy wizard dare not on the child
Lay his detested hand!”

So spake aloud
The anxious king: but yet the hour was come:
The servants of the ireful priest, even then,
Were for their victim searching.

Dark and dread
As the on-coming of a stormy night,
Grew Barak's brow, when came the seekers back,
And said, “Throughout the palace have we gone;
Searched terrace, garden, bower, and labyrinth;
But nowhere may the royal maid be found.”

Since the great god of light, from heaven's sublime,
His downward race 'gan run,—two hours had fled;
And still with darker brow, the face of war,
Upon the Assyrians frowned. With fearful glance,
Oft toward the city did the monarch look;
And to the gods imploringly cry out;
“Oh! ask not from me this dread sacrifice!”

But they his prayer heard not. Still toward the wall
The Assyrian host was driven; and more and more
Came terror on them: but, even yet, the king
Could not endure the hateful sign to give.

195

With fury indescribable he raged;
And every captain nigh, from him caught fire,
And 'gainst the enemy burned. Nebaioth still
Near to the monarch fought; and still his voice
Rang far and near,—to conquer or to die.
Brave Jerimoth, unwearied by assault,
With his mailed horsemen, fierce as famished wolves,
Attacked, and turned, and still attacked again:
And Michael, and Jehoshaphat, with cars
And horse, impetuous drove upon the foe.
Repulsed, they still the hot assault renewed;
And all seemed fixed, to vanquish, or to fall!

But, wheresoever went the mighty Mede,
There victory with him went. His countenance
Appalling, his dread voice, unnerved the arm:
And every Median captain, every man,
Felt conquest sure; and, with unceasing cries,
Still cheered each other on.

The third hour passed;
The rout grew wilder; and, at length, arose
The dreadful clamor, “To the gates, the gates!
The day is lost! Assyrians, to the gates!”

Unutterable then the agony
And consternation of that wretched king!
Looking to heaven, he dropped his spear and shield;
Stretched forth his arms, and shrieked out piteously,
“Save us, all-ruling gods! oh save us yet,
And ask not at my hands a daughter's blood!”

But, at that instant, like the rapid cloud
Which on the ocean brings the hurricane,
Sudden and fatal,—the all-dreaded Mede,
With horse and chariots, coming on was seen,
O'erthrowing, scattering, terrible as Fate!

The king beheld, and shuddered: with both hands,
Pressed on his bursting temples;—looked again,
And, with choked utterance, gasped, “It must be done!
The gods demand the show of sacrifice!
But, even at the altar-stone, their hands
Will they put forth, and save her; and to us
The victory yet will give; for, in my dream

196

So was it shown me. Gods! all-ruling gods!
Into your hands I render up my child!”

Thus having spoken, with a desperate haste,
A sable flag he seized; unfurled, and waved.

At once a thousand voices raised the cry,
“The sacrifice! the sacrifice! Even yet
The gods will aid us.” Toward the Nisroch gate,—
For so had been commanded,—flew at once
Swift horsemen,—to the watchers on the tower
The king's behest to bear. But, from above,
Already had the signal been beheld;
And, instantly, upon the pinnacle
Shot upward a huge blood-red gonfalon.

Rigid as marble, in his car yet stood
The monarch,—on the tower, with bursting eyes,
Silently gazing: closely knit his hands,
His teeth were clenched, his nostrils widely spread.
While yet he looked, lo! from the palace rose
A thick, gray smoke. One loud, terrific shriek
He raised; flung wildly up to heaven his arms;
Stiffened; and backward, corpse-like, swayed, and fell!

Among the Assyrians who that sight beheld,
Loud cries of terror rose: thousands then turned,
And to the city fled.

With tender hand,
The senseless monarch to his seat was raised:
Tartan the steeds wheeled round; and, shouting loud,
To clear the way, flew swiftly toward the wall.
Rigid, and lifeless seeming, in the arms
Of two heart-stricken captains, lay the king:
His teeth were set; his lips with foam were white;
His eye-balls inward turned.

When this was seen,
A cry raised some,—“The king is with the slain!
The day is lost! fly to the city! fly!”

But them Nebaioth angrily rebuked;
“Liars and slaves! Shame on your dastard tongues!
The battle is not lost: the king yet lives;
And soon again in all his might will rise.
Woe to the cowards then, the traitorous dogs

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Who, wanting teeth to fight, have tongues to yell!
Surely their day shall come!” With words like these,
He scared the dastard, and made strong the brave;
And still, in front advancing, called aloud,
To clear the way, and let the chariot pass.

From giddy summit of the palace roof,
The queen, meantime,—though through her brain and heart
Rushed the tumultuous blood,—upon the field
Long had stood gazing. With unsteady eye,
And thoughts distracted, looked she; nor had marked,
In that vast hell of war, the single fall
Of even Assyria's greatest: yet too well
The fatal signs of utter rout at hand
She saw; and, though for action all unfit,
In her soul thus: “Once more will I go forth,
And cheer the soldiers. Haply, as the voice
Of Peresh warned me, death may be the fruit.
I feel it may,—for fire is in my blood,
And in my brain: yet better far to die,
Than in this day of terror hold aloof,
And live but to behold Assyria's might
Pass like a shadow: for, this battle lost,
All is for ever lost!”

Resolving thus,
Her chariot, ready waiting for the word,
She summoned: on her head a helmet fixed;
Braced on her arm a shield; a spear caught up;
Swiftly descended; sprang into her car;
And through the sounding streets, like tempest flew.

Nearing the gate of Palms,—for there she had marked
The struggle hardest—a great throng she met,
Franticly flying. Them, with words of fire,
She shamed, and bade turn back.

As with new life
Suddenly gifted, they the summons hailed;
And with a deafening shout, “The queen! the queen!”
Again to combat hasted. On went she,

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Crying aloud; “Assyrians, now be men!
Let not the rebel boast again to have seen
Your backs in battle. This day must ye come
Triumphant from the field; or on your necks
Will chains be fixed; your sons will be made slaves;
Your daughters, and your wives, be concubines!
Your temples, and your altars, and your groves,
Will be cast down; the city of your birth
Will be a waste and howling wilderness!
On, on, brave men! this day redeem your fame!
Conquer,—and once again shall Nineveh
Be queen of all the earth; and at your feet
The vanquished foe shall lie! On then! press on!
A noble death far better than mean life!
Shame to the coward, glory to the brave!”

With words like these,—as still, from place to place,
Swiftly she flew,—the ardent did she fire,
The cold incite,—that all who heard, or saw,
Again for battle burned; and, as one man,
Sprang on the foe anew. But nought availed.
As well, against the angry thunderer,
Might strive the inferior gods, as, 'gainst the force
Of the terrific Mede, Assyria's arms,
Though of the bravest banded. Backward still
Did they retire; and still, with heart elate,
Bore on the enemy.

Nigh unto the wall
The chariot of the monarch had arrived,
When, suddenly recovering, wildly round
His eyes he cast; and horrible rout beheld
Still raging. Feeble were his limbs; his brain
Confused, and swimming; yet, with strong resolve,
Sitting erect; “Turn instantly the steeds,
And back into the fight!” he cried. “Be sure
The gods will give us yet the victory.
The fire is kindled,—but the victim still
Unharmed will rise. Shout out, ‘the king! the king!’
And pour into the battle!”

Crying thus,

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With trembling arm he lifted up his spear,
And strove to stand: but, with yet fiercer gripe,
The spasm returned; and, senseless as a corpse,
Rigid, and horribly convulsed, he fell,
Foaming, and stony-eyed. Within their arms
The weeping captains held him; while again
Tartan the steeds turned round; and rapidly
Drove onward through the gate.

Arrived at length
Within the palace, to his couch was borne
The exhausted king. Again the spasm had ceased;
But, helpless as a dreaming child he lay;
With wandering eye, that nought appeared to see;
Mind, that nought seemed to know. Without a word,
Upon the captains idly did he gaze,
As, piece by piece, his armour they removed:
From Peresh then, with trembling hand, and look
Submissive as an infant, took the cup;
Slowly the strong and bitter potion drained,
Unmurmuring; and, with a vacant smile,
Upon his pillow gently sank to rest.

The roar of battle seemed to stir him not:
At times, when some enormous cry burst forth,
His eyes he opened, and rolled wildly round,
As he would question: but, in little time,
Again they closed; and, with a placid look
Of mindless life, he lay, while through his frame
The potent drug, with swift and silent foot,
Stole onward; locking, at its magic touch,
Each gate of sense, by which the grosser world
External, to the ethereal world within,
The realm of soul, finds entrance. A deep sleep,
Dreamless, and death-like, on him fell at last;
Body and spirit slumbered. Well for him,
For all, had he ne'er wakened!

But, meantime,
Avenging Fate slept not. With every hour,
More hopeless for the Assyrians grew the strife.
Yet still, while with them stood the heroic queen,

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Madly they fought: in heaps on heaps they died;
And still the living, as for death athirst,
Flew headlong to the fight.

The ceaseless cry
Of the distracted queen, amazed they heard;
Yet knew not that 'twas frenzy fired her now.
O'erwrought at length, a hideous laugh she raised;
Staggered, and backward fell.

With tenderest care
Was she upraised, and to the palace borne.

But cooling herbs, and drinks, no soothing brought:
All night, in strong delirium did she rave:
Now, as in battle, gaily cheering on;
Now, as beside her dying brother's couch,
Gently consoling: bursting now in tears,
As though beside his corse again she knelt;
And now, with hurried whisper, to her child,
Counselling flight. But, ever and anon,
Chief burthen of her frenzy, rose the cry,
“On, on, brave men, to victory, or to death!
See! see! they fly, they fly! the day is ours:
Pursue! pursue! ha! victory, victory!”

So all the night she raved; nor, till the eve
Of the next day, found rest.

As though with her,
Assyria too had fallen,—in hideous rout
Fled the scared host. The choked-up gates refused
To myriads entrance; and, till closed the day,
The sword was busy. Thousands, to the banks
Of the swoln flood driven back, plunged in, and died:
Thousands, down trodden, lay, and rose no more.
Darkness fell thick; and Death was satiate.

The Median signal of recall rang loud.
Anon the watch-fires blazed: the voice of joy
Was heard within the camp: but, in the walls
Of long triumphant Nineveh, the sounds
Of anguish, lamentation, and despair!

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BOOK THE TWENTY-THIRD.

All night, and till the noon, in heavy sleep
The wretched monarch lay: and, when he waked,
So was his mind distraught, that, for a time,
He thought not of the dreadful yesterday,
Nor of the direr future. Sense confused,
And troubled, had he, of some desperate strife;
Some crushing evil past, or hovering nigh;
Yet, if a truth it was, or but a dream,
He knew not; and to think upon it feared,
Lest the dim phantom should before him stand,
A dread reality. Yet more and more
His cloudy thoughts took shape. As when, at dawn,
Young Daylight, still beneath earth's ball opaque
Far distant, on heaven's dusky firmament,
First opes his lustrous eyes,—with stealthy foot,
Night's shadows creep away; and, one by one,
Hill, stream, and tree, and valley, from the gloom
Slowly emerging, gather shape, and hue,
Till all the well-known prospect stands distinct,—
So, to his clearing reason, 'gan return
Remembrance of the strife—the rout—the flight—
The hideous blood-red flag,—the appalling smoke,
Omening horrors inexpressible!
Beyond that, all was darkness. Had she 'scaped?
Or had she perished? Was the battle won?
Or was Assyria lost? As thus he thought,
A sudden strength came on him. Starting up,
He spread his arms, and cried, “Where is my child,—

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My loved Nehushta? Hath the rebel fallen?
And doth my daughter live?”

Beside his couch,
Stood Peresh, and Azubah: in alarm,
Backward they shrank; for, such his frenzied look,
So wild and strange his voice,—nought doubted they
Madness had seized him. But the leech drew nigh;
And, bending low, with soft persuasive tone,
Said, “Let my lord the king yet rest awhile;
Nor with unquiet thoughts perplex himself.”

Azubah, too, stepped forward, pressed his hand,
And whispered tenderly, “Be comforted,
I pray thee now; lest that thy sickness come
Again upon thee.”

Yet he heeded not;
And the physician fiercely questioned still;
“Hath the child perished? Answer instantly,
Or thou shalt die!” Unknowing what he meant,
Peresh was silent. Hot with rage, the king
Sprang to his feet; and, by his silvery hair,
The old man seizing, raised his arm to strike.
But, with a shriek, Azubah caught his hand.
“Nay, nay,” she cried; “for shame and charity,
Harm not the man to whom thy life is owed!
Surely thy daughter liveth.”

When these words
The king had heard, his rigid limbs relaxed;
His arms dropped down; and on the couch he sank:
But, on Azubah fixing still his eyes,
“Speak yet again: doth the child truly live?
And is the battle won? Pause not to think,
Else I misdoubt thee: doth Nehushta live?
And is the rebel trampled under foot?”

Azubah, dreading to make known to him
That conflict's direful end, turned pale, and stood
Silent, and trembling: but, with so fierce tone,—
Upstarting to his feet, and grasping hard
Her shrinking wrist,—again he questioned her,
That she perforce replied: “With truth, O king,
I answered thee; surely thy child doth live;

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For she hath not been sick: but, oh! my lord!
Thy host hath fallen before the enemy;
Utterly fallën!”

When these words he heard,
The king released her hand; upon the couch
Slowly sat down; and, for a time, was mute.
With head depressed, hands clasped, and eye-lids closed,
Groaning he sat: at length, with hoarse voice, thus:
“Bid Salamenes hither: say the king
Anxiously waiteth.”

Peresh, bowing low,
With sad tone answered him, “My gracious lord!
The prince, alas! is slain! The noble corpse
Within the ruby chamber waits the grave!”

Suddenly starting, with a ghastly stare,
The king looked up,—as though the thing he heard,
Were against nature, and impossible.
“Slain? slain?—where? when? Oh gods! is this the boon
Ye promised on obedience! Quickly say,
How fell he,—when—and by what hand accursed?”

Reverently bending, thus the leech replied.
“In battle fell the prince. An arrow pierced
Through the steel cuirass, deep into his side:
Unknown the arm that sent it. From the field,
Yet living, was he borne: all tender care,
And cheering sympathy of human love,
The sorrowing queen bestowed: but nought could stay
The fatal doom: and, ere two hours had passed,
The noble spirit fled!”

Again, with grief
Bowed down, long time in silence sat the king:
At length thus spake; “Retire ye both awhile;
And let it to the queen be said, ‘The king
Asketh to see thee, for his heart is sad!’”

With low voice Peresh answered: “Most dread lord!
The queen is with a grievous sickness bowed;
And lieth on her bed: yea death, and life,
Do combat for her; and the worst I fear!”

Hearing these words, at once the monarch rose,

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Though weak and trembling; and her chamber sought.
But the queen knew him not. Delirium still
Strongly possessed her: and her frantic words
Tortured, and vexed him. To the chamber then,
Where cold, blind, dumb, lay what so long had been
His truest friend, his wisest counsellor,
The heart-sick mourner went. Alone he stood:
Bent o'er the clay, he poured a flood of tears;
Smote on his bosom; clasped his hands; groaned out
In bitterest anguish; rent his robe, his hair;
Called on the dead, and bade him live again,—
Live to redeem his king, and country still.

No voice replied; no gladdening smile; no glance
Encouraging of that heroic eye,
Which, like a bright star in a stormy night,
So oft had cheered, and guided! All was hushed.
The gorgeous chamber seemed a sepulchre;
The warm, perfumëd atmosphere smelt cold,
And corpse-like. Inly shuddering, a last look
On the still clay he cast; groaned heavily,
And to his chamber went.

Long there he lay,
Silent, and melancholy: but, at length,
His captains summoned; and in council deep,
And anxious, with them sat. Then learned he all
That battle's direful loss. Dejected looks
Were on the bravest; their best words were few,
And sorrowful. No counsel could they give,
Save, in their walls with patience to abide
The coming of events. The king, meantime,
New aid should summon: all the countless hordes
Of riches in Assyria's vaults upheaped,
Should freely be showered forth: fresh armies yet
Might be allured: a better day might come:
They must in patience wait. So was resolved.
But, first, unto the Medes should heralds go,—
A three-days' truce to make; that both the hosts
Their dead might bury. Closed the council then;
And the king sat alone.

Impatiently

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Longed he his child within his arms to clasp,
But yet, to meet her feared. Thus ran his thoughts.
“Would I could see her! Yet I cannot look
Upon her gentle face, and hear her voice,
All tenderness and love; for every tone,
And look, would sting me, thinking on the fate
To which I risked her.

“Still, is her escape
A mystery, that in vain I strive to pierce.
The battle hath been lost; and yet she lives,
Whose death had won for us the victory!
So said the gods; so said, at least, the priests.
Why was the victim spared, when such the cost?
To Barak power that none might dare withstand,
Was given: he on me urged that sacrifice,
As the one only mean, by which the gods
Might be appeased: yet, though from morn till night
'Gainst us the foe prevailed, he laid not hand
Upon the saving victim. Why was this?
In treason was it done, that to the foe
Might be the victory? No; for, in the fight,
He rescued me, when else I had been slain.
Feared he, perchance, lest, if the child should die,
He too should perish? Nay—in verity,
Most dauntless is the man; and his own life
Seemeth to hold at nought. But idle this:
He shall stand forth, and answer for himself.”

The priest was summoned; and with speed appeared.
With a stern, gloomy look, awhile the king
Regarded him, then questioned.

With proud mien,
Him Barak boldly answered. “Doth the king
Mock at his servant, that he asketh thus?
Knoweth he not that, privily by night,
His daughter, with Prince Dara, left the walls,
And hath not since returned?”

Astonishment
Held the king mute; and Barak thus pursued.
“An hour ere noon, as thou didst give command,
I called to bring the victim. Through thy halls,

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And chambers; through thy vaults, thy labyrinths,
Thy terraces, thy gardens, all in vain,
The searchers flew;—the maiden had escaped.
To every watcher at the city gates
Then question went; and thus, at length, was learned.
At midnight, from the Phrygian gate passed forth
Two royal chariots: they who sat within,
Were women, veiled, and silent. In the front,
On either hand, and in the rear, there rode
Mailed horsemen. One alone, of all the train,
Spake for the rest. With voice imperative,
Showing the sign of delegated power,
The royal signet-ring, Prince Dara bade
The gate to open; and none dared withstand;
Or question ask.”

While thus the wizard spake,
Sharply his hand uplifting, the king saw
The ring, indeed, was gone: and fiercest rage
To the soul convulsed him. In a moment, came
Clearest remembrance how, on that same night,
Had Dara to his chamber brought the harp,
And soothed him to repose. With flashing eye,
And face inflamed, upstarting, “Wretch!” he cried,
“Robber! he stole it from me as I slept!
Perchance some word, in slumber breathed, gave note
Of what I purposed; and the caitiff dared
To cross me. But, by heaven, and earth, and hell,
Dearly shall he abide his insolence!
If the earth hold him, soon shall he be found;
Die like a dog; and leave to dogs his bones!”

By the black demon of revenge possessed,
Body and soul—thus speaking, to and fro,
Fiercely he strode. “What ho”—again he cried,
And Tartan entered: “Send forth instantly,
From out the Phrygian gate, five hundred horse.
The traitor Dara hath my daughter stolen.
To him that brings them back, the king will give
A thousand golden talents. Question not,
But do my bidding. Priest, retire thou too;
And tell whate'er thou know'st. Bid them be quick,

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And subtle in the search. Remember well,—
A thousand golden talents. If they fail,
Let them beware.”

Again alone, the king
Grimly sat, vengeance brooding. All the strength
Of madness came upon him. With clenched hands,
Contracted brow, pressed lips, and burning eye,
In fancy drinking deep revenge, he sat.
His daughter to a dungeon should be cast;
Dara to wolves and wild dogs be the prey:
The queen herself, if, as he 'gan forebode,
She had given sanction,—even she should die;
Ay, by his own avenging arm should die!

Fired by the thought that vengeance to his hand
Might even now be ready,—franticly,
Grasping the dagger hard, he started up;
And toward the chamber of his hapless wife,
Like madman flew. Each nerve within him seemed
As iron strong: his eyes, like coals of fire,
Glared hotly: as a toad with venom swelled,
Upheaved his chest: like maniac in his fit,
He foamed, and ground his teeth. Announcing not
His purposed coming, from the outer room
He drove the affrighted women: entered next
The chamber of the queen;—furiously thence
The attendant matrons chased,—the silver bolt
Shot in the staple; cast a look around,
To make assurance that no loiterer stayed;
Then, on the couch where lay his dying wife,
Turned his ferocious eyes, and toward her strode.

As though a demon had his soul possessed,
Seemed his whole nature changed. No husband now,
No king, no father was he: what remained,
Was but a thwarted tyrant, mad to avenge;
A ravenous beast, from whom is snatched his prey.

He neared the couch: the all-unconscious queen,
With vacant eye beheld, but knew him not.
While yet he gazed, she started, and sat up:
Her thoughts had to the thick of battle flown:
Lifting her arm, with quivering voice she cried,—

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“See—see—they fly, they fly! the day is ours
Pursue, pursue! shout victory! victory!”

The king looked on; and, for a moment, felt
Compassionate, and shamed. But, suddenly,
She ceased:—turned pale; and, with a trembling lip,
Fearfully whispered—“Quick! the chariot waits:
Speed, or the priest may come. Nay, loose thy arms:
One kiss; then haste away. Fear not, fear not;
This trouble past, we all shall meet again.
Thy father loves thee: he hath been deceived:
He'll joy to know thee saved; and the vile priest
Shall feel his vengeance. Bless thee, oh my child!
Heaven bless, and shield thee! We shall meet again!”
She ceased; and, sighing heavily, sank back.

“Thou hast betrayed thy treason, and shalt die,
Accursëd woman!” said the vengeful king,
And raised the gleaming blade. “Thou, then, hast leagued
With a base traitor, with a robber vile,
To cross me in my purpose. Is the king
So tame a puppet then, that his own wife,
His trusted servant, may together join
To mock at his behest? But ye shall know
Whom 'tis ye sport with: and, if once again
To oppose his will, the power remain to you,—
His be the fault, who spared you. But no more
Shall ye be trusted: with your blood alone
Can the black crime be cleansed: and die shall both!”

He paused; and, holding high the murderous blade,
Her answer waited. Not a word she spake:
Her lids were closed; her breath was hot and quick;
Her fingers o'er the silken coverlet
Strayed feebly, as if trying thence to pluck
The golden threads.

He saw she heard him not.
“Gods! this is dreadful! She is passing now!”
Shuddering, he said; and slowly sheathed the blade:
“To strike her thus were murder! If she live,
Still must she answer it: if now she die,
Her guilt dies with her. On his burning brow

209

Both trembling hands he pressed: with starting eyes,
Glared once again upon the dying queen:
Fled from the chamber; loudly called for wine,
To drown his senses in oblivion;
And, till deep midnight, all alone remained,
In a hot gloom, intoxicate, and fierce,
Yet darkly melancholy. Now, his hands
Strongly he clenched, as though on vengeance bent;
Now, with hot tears fast rolling down his cheeks,
Sobbed, as his heart would burst.

He called, at length;
And a veiled woman entered, and knelt down
Before him, pressing with both palms her face.
“How now?” demanded he, surprised, and vexed;
“What would'st thou have? Yet answer not; but go;
And let the leech come hither.”

“Most dread lord!”
After short pause, the trembling dame replied;
“The good physician, overworn, and sick,
Hath to his home returned.”

“What? How? Returned?”
With look and tone indignant, he exclaimed;
“Gone home? Presumptuous! How then fares the queen?”

A silent moment: with a gush of tears,
Came the sad answer: “Most dread lord of lords,
She hath departed!”

Not a word spake he;
But, as by palsy stricken, backward sank.
All was deep silence, save the smothered sobs
Of that afflicted woman. By a sign,
He gave at last the word,—and was alone.

Alone! he felt himself indeed alone!
The stillness of the sepulchre was round.
Death, as in bodily presence, seemed to rule
Sole monarch there. His wisest counsellor,
His truest friend,—his bravest soldier, first,
A cold clod lay; and now his queen, his wife,—
Oh heavens! that glory of all things create!
That god-like soul, in shape celestial clad!

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That wonder of all eyes! that bower-down
Of every spirit! she too, like a cloud,
A gorgeous cloud of summer's setting sun,
Had fled; and left in utter night the earth!

So ran his thoughts, repentant all too late.
Fixed, silent, sat he. Pallid was his face,
Care-marked, yea agëd. Upon vacancy,
With wide dilated eyes of gloomy fire,
Sternly he gazed. That look said, “all is lost!”

Uttering, at length, one shrill, heart-tortured cry,
He started up,—clenched his sharp-quivering hands,—
Tore from the roots his hair,—his garments rent,—
And, flinging up his arms, called on the gods
For death to free him from his misery.

Soon, at the brimming cup, as though in pangs
Of thirst expiring, eagerly he caught;
Drained it, and filled anew, and drank again:
Then, muffling up his face, upon the couch
Heavily sank; in apoplectic sleep,
Drowning, at length, his woe.

Three days, and nights,
With draughts intemperate, and life-numbing sleep,
Strove he his pangs to dull: nor, all that time,
Food tasted; nor with man, or woman, spake.
His brain toward madness verged: he raved; he cursed
He wept; he vowed revenge.

By the third night,
The slain were buried. In their quiet tombs,
The queen, and her loved brother also slept.
None to the king dared say, “The graves are made;
The ashes of thy queen, and brother, wait
The funeral rites.” So to the tomb they went,
By myriads wept: yet he who most had lost,
Knew not when they were taken from his sight,—
Ne'er to be seen again!

On the seventh morn,
Came the pursuers back; and to the king,—
So ordered,—brought report. “Dread lord of lords!
Six days of toil, six nights of scanty rest,
Have we endured: our strength is worn away:

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Our steeds have died with very weariness:
Yet tidings of thy daughter have we none.”

That hearing, in the tyrant fiercest rage
Flamed demon-like. Upstarting—hurling down
The crystal cup that trembled in his hand,
“Slaves! ye shall die the death!” he shrieked; “ye lie!
Ye have not sought my daughter! Ye are leagued,
Hellishly leagued, to thwart me, and deceive.
Hence with you, traitors! Tartan, if thou, too,
A rebel art not, see that every head,
Ere noon, be stricken off. Away—away—
I will not hear. Look that my will be done.—
Yet send again,—a thousand fleetest steeds;
And let them search to the uttermost ends of earth:
Yea! wear out life ere, baffled, they come back!”

Tartan, all horror struck, retired: but soon
Returning, on his knees before the king
Fell down; and with such passionate vehemence
Implored, that, powerless to resist his prayer,
The tyrant softened, and their pardon spake.
Yet still, quick vengeance craving; hoping still
A victim might be found, acceptable
To heaven, and him, he for the wizard called;
And Barak came before him.

“Know'st thou not,”
The king began, “some way the gods to soothe?
Is there no other, who the place may fill
Of her I name not? By no act of mine
That offering was refused; then most unjust
That heaven on me should visit the offence.
Answer me, priest, and briefly; for my soul
Thirsteth some deed to do, that may wipe out
This ignominy. Had that wretch accursed,
Who stole my child . . . . . But even yet, perchance,
May he be found; swift feet are on his track.
If other way thou seest, the gods to move,
At once outspeak it.”

Gloomily the priest
Made answer. “Justly are the heavens incensed;

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And with yet heavier doom do threaten thee.
But, in the place of her whom they did choose,
Think not that he, or any mortal else,
Could, singly, find acceptance.”

“For that one,
Take thou a hundred, then,” roared out the king:
“Surely with that their blood-thirst may be slaked!
Ha! I bethink me: justice long hath slept,
But wakens now;—the hundred treacherous Medes,
That should before have died,—them take; and try
If all together may not, for that one,
Accepted be. To-morrow, at high noon,
See that they die,—die all. Within the square
Of Jupiter,—even at the statue's base,—
Shall be the sacrifice: so may the gods
Well pleased look down, and bless the offering.
Go, and proclaim it through the city then,
That all the multitude may gather there,
And see my power. Still am I king of kings;
And at my anger all the earth shall quake.
Speed to Sennacherib: with foot, and horse,
A thousand strong, bid him to give thee aid;
And guard the victims. Summon also thou
A hundred priests,—for every man a priest;
And, in the self-same moment, let all die.
Away,—and answer not; but see it done.”

Astonished looked the seer, as thus he heard;
But bowed, and took his way.

Still furiously
The king his chamber paced; for, in his soul,
A fire there was which nought but blood could quench.
His queen, his brother, now were all forgot.
The utter overthrow of that last field
Nought troubled him: nor of impending fate
Thought he: nor for his daughter did he mourn.
He had been crossed: his will omnipotent
Had been defied. The child whom he had loved,
The man whom he had honored, had conjoined
To baffle him: and, when he launched the bolt
That should o'erwhelm them, lo! it came again

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Innocuous to his hand! And still they lived;
Still in their cunning triumphed; still defied
His power almighty; and still vengeance seemed
Distant, nay doubtful. “Is the king of kings
Thus to be mocked? Blood, blood,” he cried, “my soul
Thirsteth for blood, and shall be satisfied!”
So, like a tiger in the toils, raged he,
Unceasingly; and no man dared approach.

But, when the sacrifice had been proclaimed,
Fear came upon the people; and they said,
“If this thing be, surely the enemy
Will like consuming fire against us burn!
And, if the city should before them fall,
Will put to death all things that therein are;
Warrior, and gray-haired man, woman, and child,
And leave no tongue to tell the history!”

Thus through the city ran complaint, and dread;
Yet no man dared resist; for, as a god,
The king was feared, and worshipped.

When he heard
The harsh command, Sennacherib was sad,
And sorely troubled: and, when he beheld
The looks of all men downcast; and their speech
Complaining heard,—he feared for what might come.
Then to the king he went, and, kneeling down,
“Oh! lord of lords!” imploringly he said,
“Have mercy, oh have mercy! Every eye
Drops tears; and every heart with grief, and dread,
Is faint, and troubled. To thy people's voice
Oh listen! They beseech thee, to recall
The awful doom, and let the captives go.
‘Their death may nought avail us’—do they cry,
‘And surely, if this evil thing be done,
With rage unutterable will the foe
Against us burn; and leave unslain no man,
Woman, or child, that in the city dwells:
So, for this hundred sacrificed, shall die
Myriads on myriads.’ Mighty lord, oh hear,
And grant thy people's prayer.”

To him the king,

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With flashing eye, haughty and threatening brow,
Sternly thus spake: “A warrior good art thou;
And, therefore, to thy words, though overbold,
With patience have I listened. Hear me now.
Fixed as yon heaven above, this earth beneath,
Stand I immoveable: they all shall die!
Harass me more, and, by the eternal gods!
Five hundred, for this one, shall die the death!
Thou hast thine answer: go, and make it known,
Whoso again shall dare the king to move
From his fixed purpose, his own doom will speak.”

Shuddering, Sennacherib heard; bowed low, and went.
All which the king had spoken,—to the chiefs,
The priests, the lords, and rulers, he made known.

From man to man, throughout the city, soon
The tidings spread; and great was the dismay,
And deep the murmuring: yet all obeyed.
The altar-stones, the fuel for the fires,
Stood ready: and, while yet four hours of noon
Were wanting,—a strong guard, of foot, and horse,
Circled the place of sacrifice.

Unawed
By the king's stern command; resolved to brave
The death he threatened,—yet with beating heart,
Blanched face, and trembling limbs,—Azubah went;
Fell prostrate at his feet,—and, bathed in tears,
With sobs convulsed, conjured him, by all things
Holy, and just, and great, that sacrifice
Appalling to forbid. Impatiently
His hand he waved, while in a passion-flood
Of eloquence she poured forth all her soul:
And still, at intervals, he said, “vain,—vain,—
Speak not—thy words are vain.” Yet still she sued;
And still, his anger gathering more and more,
With sharper word he answered.

To her knees
She rose at length, and looked him in the face.
As lightning through the rain, from her drenched eyes
Flashed living fire, and trembling, thus she spake.
“If this abominable crime thou do,

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Thy name, O king, will, throughout all the earth,
Become a loathing, and a hiss” . . .

Stark mad,
Sprang up the tyrant,—thrust her to the floor;
And, with a voice harsh as a tiger's growl,
“Curs'd woman! get thee from my sight!” he cried,
“Else slaves shall drag thee forth, and spit on thee.
Too happy if, for thy great insolence,
Thou also die not. But beware! beware!”

Slowly Azubah rose: her face was pale,
But not with terror: from that beauteous brow,
That eye, that eloquent lip, where love had dwelt
As in his home,—came silently, but plain
As if by clear-voiced herald spoken out,
“Proud, miserable man! thy reign is o'er!
Unworthy as thou art, through good, and ill,
My soul hath cleaved to thee: it loathes thee now!
No heart can love thee more. For aye, farewell!”

So spake that loving woman's parting look;
But word she uttered none.

Straightway she went;
The city quitted; to the Median camp,
Alone, and weeping, sped: her father sought;
Fell down before him; told the dreadful tale
Of that most horrid sacrifice to come;
Prayed that with him, thenceforth, for evermore,
She might abide; and, as his child, again
Be loved, and cherished; while, to him, might she
A comfort, and a solace yet become;
A staff to his old age. Rabsaris heard;
His heart was melted, and he blessëd her.
Yet, with those fearful tidings overcharged,
He tarried not, but to Arbaces' tent
Ran eagerly.

Already known, he found
The direful tale: for, when Sennacherib,
Returning, told how bloody were the thoughts
Of the infuriate king,—Nebaioth then,
And Jerimoth, with anger filled, and shame,
Counsel had taken, how that horrid act

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They might avert. “Let us send privily,
And warn Arbaces,” said they; “haply he
Some way to turn the headstrong king may find.”

Two brave and trusty men instructing then,
In secrecy at once they sent them forth:
And when Rabsaris, out of breath with haste,
Burst in the tent, he found the Assyrians there,
Their message ending.

When they ceased to speak
Arbaces answered not; but, instantly,
Two heralds summoned: bade them, with all speed,
A chariot mount; into the city fly;
And, standing in the presence of the king,
Say out aloud: “Sardanapalus, thus
Arbaces, leader of the Median host,
Doth greet thee. ‘Of a surety do we know
That thou, this day, a bloody sacrifice
Dost purpose; yea, wilt offer to thy gods
The hundred Median captives. But, beware,—
For, if this most abominable thing
Thou do commit,—destruction infinite
Shall come upon thee: thou shalt die the death;
The death of murderer die. Have we not, too,
Captives, by myriads, who, for this blood shed,
A thousand fold might pay? Bethink thee, then,
And, ere too late, repent.’” The heralds bowed,
And hasted on their way.

Before the king
Erelong they stood; and faithfully, and well,
Their message told. Then nigh to madness rose
The despot's fury. “Execrable dogs!”
Upstarting from his throne, he bellowed out;
“Give rebels, then, the law unto their king?
His will alone is law; and, what he wills,
That surely shall he do, though all the earth
Rise to oppose him. Tell your insolent chief,
As well might he the almighty thunderer
Hope, with his puny threats, to make come down
From his heaven-throne, as me to turn aside
From my fixed purpose. Surely as the sun

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Shall to his noon-point climb, so surely they,
The treacherous Medes, upon the altar-stones,
Shall die beneath the knife of sacrifice!
And ye, foul-mouthed, who this audacious threat,
Audaciously have spoken,—ye shall stay,
And witness at what price Assyria's king
Doth rate the threatener.” To his servants then;
“Hence with these barking curs: put on them chains;
And drag them to the place of sacrifice.
There, close beside the victims let them stand,
That they may well behold; and witness bear
To him that sent them. If they dare resist;
Or, in opposal, open but the mouth;
Scourge them to death. When all the rites are o'er,
Strip off their robes; and from the city gates,
With hoots and hisses, drive them. So may they
Tell to their masters, how Assyria's king
Doth tremble at their anger.” In reply
The heralds 'gan to speak; but, on the mouth
Harshly were smitten, and dragged headlong forth.

'Twas nigh the hour of noon: the spacious square
With silent, anxious multitudes was thronged,—
A sea of pallid faces, and bright eyes,
Tremblingly waiting. On the pedestal
That bore the giant statue of the god,
With arms enfolded in his sable robes,
Stood Barak; from that height o'erlooking all,
And all directing. In a circle rose
The hundred altar-stones; at each a priest,
Silently waiting, and a victim bound.
Loaded with chains, the heralds of the Mede,
On lofty seats, conspicuous to all eyes,
Sat pale, and shuddering: but, at their distress,
No man could mock; for every heart was sad,
And ominous of ill. One sound alone,
At times, was heard,—the low and stifled cry
Of some poor victim; as of wife, or sire,
Daughter, or son, or mother, never more
To be beheld, the torturing thought arose.

The air was thick, and sultry; no wind stirred:

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With ponderous clouds of inky hue, the sky
Closely was covered: at wide intervals,
Came down a solitary drop of rain,
Weighty and broad; as though from out their heaven
The pitying gods dropped tears.

The fatal hour
At length was come. Barak the signal gave:
And a hoarse, melancholy trumpet-blast
Proclaimed the opening rites. Down on their knees
Sank then the multitude; while toward the sky,
With hands uplifted, Barak turned his face;
And, with a voice so loud that, 'mid the hush
Intense, by thousands was it clearly heard,
In words like these began.

“Immortal gods!
Who, with a wisdom that can never err;
With justice that can never prosper wrong;
And with a might omnipotent, do rule
In heaven, and earth, the living, and the dead,—
Hear us, oh hear! If, for the people's sins,
And for the sins of him who on the throne,
Your great vicegerent, sits, ye have shot down
The arrows of your vengeance,—hear our prayer!
Be now propitiate, and in mercy turn
Your face of wrath away! To all the earth,
Was once this mighty city as a sun,—
So dazzling in her glory and her power.
Kings bowed before her: the far distant lands
Sent tribute; and implored to wear her bonds,
Proud of submission. The eternal hills,
Not more eternal, nor more deeply fixed
On their broad adamantine base appeared,
Than once this great and glorious Nineveh!
But ye have frowned upon her: ye have cast
Shadows of night about her: ye have sent
Armies of terrible men, who hem her round;
Scatter, and slay, her soldiers; threat aloud
That they will burn her towers, and palaces;
Her walls will overthrow; will put to death
All that therein do dwell; and make of her

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A desert, and a howling wilderness!
But, in your might alone, immortal gods,
Our foes are strong: and, if ye hold aloof,
And aid them not, again will they be weak,
And fly before us. Hearken to us then.
For our own sins, and for the king's offence,
Humbly do we implore forgiveness now:
And, to appease your wrath, do offer up,
In place of that one victim, whom ye chose,
The hundred now before you. May the steam
Of this great sacrifice, your wrath appease;
And over all the land your blessings bring!”

He ceased; the signal gave; and instantly
That melancholy trumpet breathed again
Its strange blood-freezing blast. At once uprose
The trembling multitude: the gleaming knives
At once were bared. Throughout the crowded square
Ran hiss of quick-drawn breath: all hearts throbbed loud;
All ears were opened; strained was every eye
To catch the signal.

Drearily, at length,
Wailed out the death-blast! Wild shrieks rent the air.
In the same moment, dread as lightning, gleamed
The falling blades. The horrid rites were done!

A grave-like stillness held the shuddering throng:
Awhile none moved, or breathed: as in a dream,
Hearing the hideous chorus of deep groans,
Horror-transfixed, they stood.

But other sounds,
Appalling, followed. As though earth would speak
Her curse on that great wickedness,—there came
From her deep chambers hollow murmurings;
And angry tremblings shook her mighty heart.
The black gigantic statue of the god
Rocked visibly; and they who near it were,
Fled shrieking; lest the ponderous mass should fall,
And overwhelm them.

Barak, only, stood,
Fearless, and firm; and, when the earth was still;

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And the awe-stricken multitude was hushed;
His strong voice lifted up undauntedly,
And cried, “Ye foolish men, why fear ye thus,
When ye should triumph, and be glad at heart!
Know ye not, then, the omen? Earth's great voice
Speaks her acceptance of the sacrifice:
The statue of the deity doth nod
Approval, for all heaven. Lift then on high
Your voices, every man, and peal the hymn
Of praise, and thanks, to Bel omnipotent,
To earth, and all the starry host of heaven.”

Ceasing to speak, unto the priests he signed,
And to the people; then, with powerful voice,
Himself began the song. With him, at once,
Choired in the priests: soon, of the multitude,
Sang thousands also: and, as stronger grew
Their courage, and their hearts with music warmed,
Still thousands more joined in; till rose, at length,
A mighty flood of sound harmonious,
That filled heaven's concave.

But at once it closed:
In one wild shriek of fear unutterable,
Was swallowed up; and in a burst so loud
Of thunder, that the city to its base
Was shaken: for a glaring ball of fire,
Broad as the disk of the full moon, shot down:
Right on the statue's head, with iron clang,
Smote crashing; burst—and, in a hissing shower
Of shivered lightning, quivered, and expired.

All eyes were darkened; deafened were all ears.
In heaps down sank the terror-stricken crowd,
Covering their faces. When the roar had ceased,
And they 'gan rise, and dimly look about,
Lo! on the earth the giant statue lay,
Shattered, and scorched to blackness!

As if dead,
Upon the pedestal, with limbs outstretched,
Lay Barak: but, in little time, he stirred;
Looked round; upon his elbow raised himself;
Then stood upon his feet; and, lifting up
His hands unto the people, spake aloud.

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But none regarded him; nor aught could hear,—
So loud the wailings, and despairing cries,
Of that awe-stricken multitude. “Alas!
Alas!” they cried, “the gods are wroth with us,
For this most bloody deed. The solid earth
Shakes in her anger; and the vengeful heaven
Hurls down its terrible fire! Away, away!
Fly to your homes, ye men of Nineveh;
Leave this abhorrëd place! lift up your hands,
At your own altars, and pray ceaselessly,
That on the guilty heads alone may fall
The wrath of heaven; and that the fearful doom,
Which hangs o'er this devoted city now,
May be recalled; and, for the wicked few,
The myriads may not utterly be lost!”

With words like these, cried man to man; while all,
Of evil darkly pondering, fled the spot,
With loathing, and with horror: to their homes
Hastily speeding, told the fearful tale:
With parents, wives and children, kneeling then,
Called on the gods to pardon, and to turn
Their face of wrath aside; and pour not out
On that unhappy land the cup of woe.

Through all the city was the voice of grief
And lamentation heard: for every man
Became a prophet; and the coming fall
Of once earth-ruling Nineveh foretold.

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BOOK THE TWENTY-FOURTH.

Meantime, Arbaces with his captains sat,
Anxiously waiting. Wherefore came not back
Their heralds, was the wonder: but the truth
No man even guessed at. “With the king they plead,”
Said some, “and will not cease till he be moved
To nobler thoughts.” But others said, “perchance
The tyrant sleeps; or with his concubines
Taketh his pleasure; and the heralds wait.”
So in conjectures various passed the time;
And restlessly they sat.

But, when the earth
Beneath them 'gan to quake; and her great voice
In deep and hollow murmurings to speak,—
Then hastily all rose, and from the tent
Went forth, that they might look abroad, and see
What fearful thing was coming.

Black and dense,
The thunder-clouds above the city hung;
But earth again was still; a solemn hush,
As of deep night, was felt. As thus they stood,
Silently gazing,—rose upon the air,
Cloud-like and faint, yet vast, that awful hymn:
Pallid grew every face; and man on man,
Speechless with horror, looked; for well they knew
The bloody deed was done!

But when, at length,
That bolt terrific on the city struck;
And that earth-shaking peal of thunder burst;

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And, afterward, the piercing shrieks were heard
Of the fear-stricken multitude,—then spake,
With a loud voice, Belesis: “King accurs'd!
By man and gods accurs'd! thy doom draws nigh!
Earth sickens at thee: the hot bolts of heaven
Are loosed to blast thee; and the sky heaps up
Its clouds to pour upon thee in a flood!
Tyrant, and murderer! here I prophesy:
The mandate is gone forth: thy grave is dug:
Thy sceptre to a worthier hand is given:
And, ere another moon shall wane away,
There, on that spot where stands proud Nineveh,
The great and guilty city,—shall be found
Black, smoking ashes only!” Having said,
He turned away, and passed into the tent;
And by the most was followed.

But, awhile,
Arbaces stood, and toward the city looked,
Pondering what next to do. Resolved, at length,
Two captains, and a trumpeter, with sign
Of parley well displayed, in haste he sent;
Who, at the gate arriving, should demand
Why came not back the heralds of the Mede;
And what had been the sacrifice. That done,
He to the tent returned; and with his chiefs
In earnest conference sat. All surely felt
The day of retribution was at hand:
Yet, how the powers above, the event would shape,
But darkly might they guess.

A sound, at length,
Approaching them was heard,—the voice of men
In grief and anger; for, their robes torn off,
Their heads uncovered, and their bodies soiled,—
Even as with ignominy from the gate
They had been driven,—the reverend heralds came,
Painfully walking: and, as they passed on,
The soldiers and the captains gathered round,
Burning with shame and anger.

To the tent
Were they brought in; and there the fearful tale
At large did they rehearse; there own disgrace;

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The bloody massacre; the awful bolt;
The consternation of the multitude.

Rage hot as fire within the bosom glowed
Of all who heard; and feverish was the thirst,
That shame and bloodshed, with swift blow to avenge.

Yet how? The walls impregnable, the gates
Of everduring brass, all strength of man
Would set at nought. The foe, secure within,
Would hold them in derision. So said most.
Some spake of engines that should burst the gates:
Some counselled, with tall ladders, in dead night,
To scale the wall: some would again have tried
The stratagem, once foiled, by stealth to ope
The portals, and let in the host: and some,
A price upon the tyrant's head advised;
And treaty with his captains and his lords,
The city to surrender,—sure to fall,—
And thus, from fire and slaughter to preserve
Themselves, and it, and all who therein dwelt.

So, in confused debate, for many hours
Conferred they; nor on purpose could resolve.

Arbaces spake not,—for not yet he saw
Clear way to 'vantage: but, to every voice,
Calmly he listened; and, of every scheme,
The better part selected; hoping still,
That 'mid the chaos would gleam forth, at length,
Some guiding-star to action.

But, while yet
The strife of tongues was loud, Belesis rose,—
For yet he had not spoken,—and to him
All turned attentive, as, with look inspired,
And ardent tone, thus strenuously he spake.
“Perplex yourselves no more; nor waste your breath
In useless consultation, what to do,
Or what to leave undone. The arm of heaven
Is stretched above the city; and the might
Of man is needed not. The rock-like walls;
The gates of everduring brass,—to you
Impregnable,—to Powers Omnipotent,
Frail are as gossamer. By stealth would ye
The city enter; or, in shade of night,

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The walls would climb; or, with your banded strength,
And potent engines, batter at the gates,—
Sure to be foiled: but the Almighty Gods,
Even with their breath, could blow the ramparts down:
Could, with the flashing of their eye-balls, fire
The temples, and the palaces, and towers:
Or, holding back themselves, might summon forth
Their ministers, the earthquake, or the flood,
To shake the strong foundations, and bring down,
Like dry leaves, every stone; or to o'erwrap
With the deep waters, like a winding-sheet,
The corpse of the drowned city. Cease ye then
To ponder and contrive. Leave all to heaven:
For, surely as yon sun is over-head,
Though to us viewless,—so assuredly,
Though ye behold it not, there is put forth
The hand that shall yon city strike, and crush
To dust and ashes. I have seen—I see—
The mouldering skeleton unburied lie,
Thousands of years to rot, yet unconsumed,
The marvel and the warning of a world!
Then be ye calm: retire into your tents:
Refresh yourselves; and patiently await
The foot-tread of the swift-avenging gods.”

He ceased; and there was silence; for his eye
Shone like to his on whom the inner heaven
Is opened; and his voice oracular
Seemed as a speaking god's.

At length uprose
Arbaces, and thus said. “Belesis, thou
With wisdom more than man's dost counsel us:
To every voice have I given patient ear;
On every scheme have pondered; yet remained
Within me darkness, and distrust of all.
Against yon matchless city's strong defence,
No hope have we, by merely mortal power,
That retribution swift and great to bring,
For which our spirits thirst. And, not to man,
Perchance, hath heaven assigned this chastisement.

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To him, for small transgressions, may be left
The rod of justice; but, the Gods themselves,
Such crime will surely punish. Nay, even now,
See ye not tokens of the coming doom?
Why, for long days, as with a funeral pall,
Have the clouds covered earth? Why riseth up,
Though no rain falleth, the dark troubled flood?
Why quakes the ground? why falls the marble god,
Shattered, and scorched beneath the thunder-bolt?
Such things before have been, nor man the cause,
Or object; yet, when wickedness like this
Polluteth earth; and, on the hated deed,
Such tokens follow,—surely must I deem
That they the immediate hand of heaven do show,
Stretched forth to punish. As we are advised,
Then let us rest; and patiently expect
What the all-ruling and just gods decree.”

He ceased, and all were satisfied. Then went
The princes and the captains to their tents:
And soon throughout the camp a rumour flew
Of strange and terrible events at hand,
By the wise priest foreseen. What these should be,
All day the talk was, and the wonderment.

Nor, when the sun's great spirit-stirring voice
Had sunk to silence; and the twilight's hush
'Gan soothe the earth's loud throbbing heart to rest,
Aught had the fever bated. 'Mid the gloom,
Gathering in groups, with tones of wrath, and awe,
Still talked they; darkly guessing when, and how,
Heaven's vengeance on the accursëd would come down.

Oft was a shrinking finger toward the sky
Tremblingly pointed; eyes were upward turned;
And, erelong, through the host a whisper flew,
That, from the clouds down looking, had been seen
Dread faces of the doom-denouncing gods.

At length blazed out the watch-fires,—to their tents
All summoning. But yet, far on in night,
Throughout the camp was heard the muffled hum
Of men low talking: and when, nigh on dawn,

227

O'erwrought at last, in sleep profound all lay,
Still in their dreams they saw Supernal Might
Inexorably working overthrow
Of the proud tyrant, and his towers of strength.

Meantime, till darkness fell, in Nineveh
Were fear, and discontent, and loud complaint,
And auguries of ill. The monarch heard
How spake the people; and for Barak sent;
And, when the priest before him stood, thus said.
“The sacrifice is done; but, if well pleased,
Or wrathful, thereat, be the Powers above,
As yet no sign doth show. The thunder-bolt
That hurled the statue shattered to the ground,
Thou say'st is token that the sacrifice
Accepted was; and will their wrath assuage.
But other thoughts possess the multitude:
Dark prophecies of evil gather strength;
And men are sad at heart, and sore afraid.
Go therefore, thou, and counsel with the stars;
With Spirits of good, or evil,—heaven, or hell,—
I reck not what; so thou may'st rightly learn,
And truly tell, this city's destiny,
And mine. If happy augury thou shalt bring,
Let it be noised abroad, that all may know:
If evil, in the chamber of thy heart
Lock up the secret, save to me alone.”

He ceased awhile; forgetful that the priest
Still in his presence stood; and, all absorbed,
Thus with his own dark thoughts communion held.
“For me hath Fate no terror I need dread.
My cup of life hath been a sparkling one,
Luscious, and strong; and bravely have I quaffed.
If nigh the bottom now, even be it so:
To fulness have I drunk; nor Fate itself
Can rob me of one drop from the sweet past.

For every future ill that she may threat,
In my own hand I hold the remedy,—
Death will cure all. When life no more is sweet,
Needs but one blow,—a momentary smart,—

228

Then earth, and man, and gods, and Fate are shut
For ever from me; and may do their worst.
But better days may come: I yet may rise,
And trample down the rebel,—now so proud;
And, like the sun eclipsed, more glorious show,
From the brief gloom emerging. Come what may,
While living I will live: music, and wine,
Feasting, and love, shall make me still a heaven
Which the stern gods might envy: and, if Fate
Of these should rob me,—welcome then the stroke
That brings swift death, and blank oblivion!
As I have lived, so joyously I'll die.”

Thus, while yet distant and uncertain seemed
The threatening evils, did his proud heart boast:
Forgetful that, ere death can welcome be,
Must life a load intolerable lie
On the crushed spirit.

But the wizard spake;
And, with a start, the musing king awoke.
“Lord of Assyria! would'st thou clearly learn,
And with assurance of its truth, the doom
To thee, and to thy kingdom, from the first
Predestinated,—ere this earth was formed,
Or the great sun and stars in heaven were fixed,—
Speak but the word; and I will summon up
Those who can all reveal.”

“Then call them now,”
Hastily said the king, “whoe'er they be,—
Evil, or good,—and I will question them.”

“Lord of the earth art thou,” the priest replied,
“But not of air; nor of the realms beneath.
Nor power hath living man, at his own choice
Of time and place, from their dim silent land
To call the spirits of the mighty dead.
They may not be commanded: but, invoked
By solemn rites, and with an humble heart,—
At the fit hour and place, may hear the call;
And, in the shadow of their mortal form,
Appear, and answer.”

“Let me see, and hear

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These ghosts, or demons,—whatsoe'er they be;
And, for the manner, place, or time thereof,
I reck not: therefore, as thou wilt, dispose
The order of thy mystery. But, beware!
No juggling, priest! no trick to cheat the eye;
No villain hid in darkness, with thin voice,
To play the solemn ghost. Bold sorcery,
Black as thou wilt,—I heed not. Call the dead,
The damned; spirits of heaven, or hell;
Or demons of the earth,—if such there be,—
That ride upon the hurricane; or lash
The sea to foam; or, 'mid her deepest vaults,
Disport with Earthquake. Summon what thou wilt,—
So it be real, and no mockery:
But, if thou tamper with me, priest, thy life
Shall pay the forfeit.”

“Be thyself the judge,
O king!” the seer replied: “But, canst thou leave,
At midnight, thy bright halls, and regal pomp;
And, clad in sackcloth,—with uncovered head,
Stand in the darksome vaults that underlie
The hoary palace of thine ancestor,
All-conquering Ninus? For, beneath the roof
Where feasters revel, and the dazzling lamps
Make nightly sunshine, the dim mournful shades
Of the great dead will never be invoked.”

Awhile the king sat silent; with fixed eye
Keenly the prophet scanning, as in doubt:
But, soon assured, replied; “A bold request
Thou makest: sackcloth, for the kingly robes;
The royal head dis-crowned; the sunbright hall
Of mirth and feasting, at the midnight hour,
For the dark vault exchanged:—yet, not the less,
Thus, then, and there, shalt thou behold me, priest:
For, whether good, or evil, my soul thirsts
To know the things to be. But, no delay:
This night shall it be done. Yet, once again,
I warn thee,—no deceit. With eye severe,
Wilt thou be marked; with every sense awake.
Nor ill it pleaseth me that I, at length,

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In their own form and working, shall, in part,
Those mysteries behold, of which, till now,
Report alone hath reached me. But, enough:
At midnight I expect thee.” Nought replied
The solemn prophet; but bowed low, and went.

Long musing sat the king,—suspicion dark
Fretting within him, lest, beneath this show
Of magic wonderment, might treason lurk:
Or, at the best, some purpose insolent
To blind, and lead astray. The hour, the place,
The solitude, the ceremonials all,
Strange seemed, and doubtful: yet, was he resolved
The event to prove. The wine-cup touched he not;
That, with clear eye and mind, to all might he
Give heedful notice. Treason to o'erawe,
If such were dreamed of, twice a hundred men,
In mail complete, he summoned to attend;
Who, when he should have entered, by the gate
Might take their stand, and bide his coming forth.
Thus having ordered, in a restless mood,
The hour he waited.

Thrice five hundred years,
Adown the soundless-flowing stream of time,
Had floated on,—since, in his pride of power,
Great Ninus that stupendous pile had reared,
Within whose vault, now, at the midnight's noon,
The last descendant of his mighty line,
With head dis-crowned, and sackcloth for his robes,
Entered, of fate to question. Through his veins
A chillness ran, as closed the massive door,—
Its thunder-like resoundings dying off
In the far space, like echo 'mid the hills,—
And all alone, save with the priest, he stood.

A grave for nations, might that vault appear,—
So vast, so silent, and so terrible!
Long lines of feeble lamps, whose farthest ray
Showed but like kindling darkness,—lighted up,
Grim as a smile upon the face of death,
The tomb-like horror: yet no form distinct
Of aught was visible. The priest moved on;

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And signed the king to follow. Still was all
Shapeless, and dark, save where, at either hand,
The base of some enormous pillar stood,
Propping the unseen roof. On, on they went;—
The echo of their softly treading feet,
Amid the empty vast, like Spirit-tongues,
Gloomily muttering. But, erelong, more thick
The darkness gathered. As a rising cloud
Shuts, one by one, from the lone traveller's gaze,
Heaven's cheering stars,—even so, as on they moved,
Some formless thing obscure, seemed blotting out
Lamp after lamp,—till all before them, now,
Was solid blackness. Paused at length the priest,
And stood in silence: nor the monarch aught
Could dare to question; for his blood ran cold,
His hair began to stiffen. One wild look
All round he cast. To either hand, shone still,
And far behind, the lines of glow-worm lamps;
But, on the blackness that before him stood,
His eyes soon fixed; for there he seemed to feel
The presence of some dread invisible Thing,
Erelong to appear; and, like the voice of Fate,
His destiny utter.

But the priest, at length,
With solemn accent lifted up his voice:
And, like the clamor of a distant host,
A throng of echoes muttered. “Mighty shades
Of kings departed! on whose awful brows
Hath, in far distant ages, sat the crown
Of this most glorious empire of the earth,—
The latest of your long-enduring line,
Nor least,—Sardanapalus, king of kings,
Here, by my voice, invokes you. Fate doth frown;
Victorious rebels threat, with sword and fire,
The ancient city of your majesty!
Oh! from your dim and silent regions, then,
Deign to appear; and let your voice be heard,
Prophetic of her doom.”

The wizard ceased;
And for awhile was silence: but, at length,

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A sound as of a tempest coming on,
Arose, and filled the vault; then died away:
And lo! amid the thickest darkness stood
A dim gigantic form. A regal crown
Was on the massive head; the silvery beard
Descended to the breast. The face was wan
As a gray cloud of morning. On the king
The large cold eye-balls were a moment turned;
And then it passed.

Came next a female form,
Tall and majestic; fierce, yet beautiful.
Crowned like the first was she; but, on her arm,
A shield was braced; her right hand grasped a spear.
He knew the warrior-queen, Semiramis.

But she was gone: another filled her place;
Another, and another: on each brow
A kingly diadem glimmering: on—on—on—
Another—still another,—a long train
Of phantom monarchs, pale, and sorrowful:
Some, in the gorgeous robes of peaceful state;
Some, clothed in mail complete. In youth were some,
Some, middle-aged, and some were gray with years.

Each, as he passed along, upon the king
Turned his cold moon-like eye: but not a voice
As yet was heard; and grave-like was the hush.

Strange horror held the king: his hair stood up;
His breath came quick: the beating of his heart,
In that intensest silence, like the stroke
Of some great engine, seemed his ear to stun.

Still onward glided by the ghostly train;
Till came, at length, one shape that, more than all,
Sent shuddering through his soul. He saw, distinct
As in the life,—though wan and mournful now,—
The face of his dead father: the same crown
That he had worn; upon his stately form
The same habiliments.

Not like the rest,
Passed he away. With pale phosphoric eye,
Upon the gasping son, the phantom sire
Gazed long, and silently: till thus, at length,
From lips unmoving, with sepulchral tone,

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The well-known voice pronounced; “FEAR NOT, FEAR NOT;
BUT LAUGH THY FOES TO SCORN. GREAT NINEVEH,
TO MORTAL MIGHT WILL NEVER BOW THE KNEE,
TILL TIGRIS FROM HIS BED SHALL 'GAINST HER RISE;
O'ERTOP HER BATTLEMENT, AND LOFTY TOWERS,
AND RIOT IN HER STREETS.”

The spectre ceased;
And melted in the darkness. But, at once,
A multitude of awful voices rose,
As in far space, and cried again, “Fear not:
Great Nineveh will never bow the knee,
Till Tigris from his bed shall 'gainst her rise;
O'ertop her battlement, and lofty towers,
And riot in her streets!”

With every word,
Fainter, and yet more faint, the sound became;
As if in rapid flight, 'mid upper air,
Or through the solid earth, the voices fled.

Fell then a heavy silence. Cold with awe,
Yet inwardly exulting, a brief space
The monarch stood; but not a word could speak,—
So was his soul o'erwrought: nor spake the priest;
But both in silence turned, and took their way.

Upon the morrow, when from troubled sleep
The king arose,—with pride was he inflamed,
And confidence in that dark augury.
Then sent he forth, the princes and the chiefs
For a great feast to summon.

Ne'er before,
Even in his days of undisputed power,
Had shone so gloriously the festive hall,
As now,—when, on the very brink of fate,
He, and his matchless city, tottering stood.
Deeply he drank, and loudly did he boast.
“Let the fools lie, and rot upon the plain!
What heed we? For three years our walls are stored:

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They cannot climb them, nor can burst the gates.
Let the fools rest! Famine shall gnaw their flesh,
Or pestilence sweep them off: but here will we
Feast, and rejoice, and laugh their rage to scorn.
Great Nineveh will never bow the knee,
Till Tigris from his bed shall 'gainst her rise;
O'ertop her battlement, and lofty towers,
And riot in her streets! So spake the Fates.
Fill then your cups: with music, and with wine,
And with the joys of love, our lives shall pass.”

Thus, with loud voice, spake he his boastful heart;
And all the thousand lords and rulers raised
Their brimming cups, and to the bottom drained.

Yet were the minds of most with care o'ercast,
With dark forebodings, or ill-smothered ire.
Upon the vacant place, where erst had sat
The prince of all beloved, was many an eye
In sorrow turned: upon the noble queen
Was many a sad thought fixed: remembrance, too,
Of that abhorrëd sacrifice arose;
And, with it, 'gainst the perpetrator, wrath,
Hard to conceal. Nor at the feast were seen
The two, of all the captains honored most,
And more than all illustrious, Jerimoth,
And young Nebaioth: nor was it unknown,
Though unavowed, that, in a deep disgust
At that most bloody act, they held aloof.

But, as the night wore on; and the high strains
Of joyous music lifted up their souls;
And the deep draughts of sunny wine 'gan fire
Their sluggish blood, and, with unnatural shine,
Dazzle the mental eye,—loud grew their mirth;
And high their boasting.

Toward the morning, rose
A tempest, that the walls appeared to shake:
As though the clouds had burst above their heads,
Poured down the hissing rain: the thunder roared;
The incessant lightnings leaped; yet nought recked they:
Deeper they drank, and madder grew their mirth.

Two hours the sun had risen, ere, in the sleep
Of utter drunkenness, the revel closed.

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BOOK THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

Far otherwise, within the Median camp,
Had passed the changeful night. In dreamless sleep,
Three portions had gone by: but, when the storm,
Like a wild beast awaked and ravenous,
Burst in its fury forth; and, cataract-like,
Came down the boiling rain,—wide flew all eyes,
From sleep even heaviest. With loud hiss expired
The deluged watch-fires; and in darkness deep
As of closed tomb, the affrighted sentries stood.

What then to do, they knew not. With their spears
Planted in earth,—against the tempest, some,
Stood stiffly staggering: some, upon the ground
Hastily flung themselves; and some, driven on,
Reeling, and stumbling, fell. But, when heaven's fires
'Gan volley,—in the momentary blaze,
Uprooted tents they saw; faces of men
Looking aghast; and steeds, that from their stalls
Had broken,—in wild terror, o'er the plain
Headlong careering.

Thus, till dawned the day,
In darkness, and fierce light alternating;
In terror, and confusion, lay the host.

Nor, when the gloomy day-beam on them stole,
Much comfort brought it. Still, unbated, roared
The hurricane: still, with its mighty voice,
The thunder spake; with fires incessant, still
Heaven flamed; and the big clouds their deluge poured.

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Save on that higher ground where camped the host,—
Far as the eye could see, o'er all the plain
The turbid waters spread. Majestic trees
Uprooted lay: the strong-winged eagle toiled
Vainly, that blast to face; then, screaming, turned;
And, on the pennons of the tempest borne,
Swift as the arrow leaves the clanging cord,
Shot onward, and was lost. Noon came; and night;
And still the storm raged on. Another morn,
And yet no change. Then in the hearts of most
Awoke despair: a second flood, they deemed
Was coming on the earth; and all alike
Surely must perish.

'Gainst the hurricane's wrath,
Dared few to stand: but, with unbating zeal,
From morn till night, amid the soldiers went
Their mighty leader; and with words of hope
Exhorted, and encouraged. In his hand,
For staff, a spear he bore; a lion's hide
Shielded his body. Wheresoe'er he went,
He carried comfort; for he taught the eye,
Beyond the blackness of the storm, to see
The glorious day of promise.

Of the chiefs,
Strove also some, the soldiers' hearts to cheer:
But most, by deep dejection were subdued:
Their arms were rusted, and their garments drenched;
Their limbs, with cold, and wet, were cramped, and stiff:
Food had they little,—for the driving rain
Pierced through the strongest tents; and nauseous made
All viands; nor, of fire, one spark could live.

Belesis only, when most fiercely raged
The tempest, most rejoiced; for now he saw
The immediate advent of the hour of wrath
Upon the guilty city. Day and night,
Still was his cry, “Behold! the hand of God,
At length, to do great wonders, is put forth.
Be of good heart, and fear not: for the time
Of your exulting cometh.”

Three dark days,

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Three dreadful nights, the hurricane had raged:
With the fourth morn it ceased. The soldiers, then,
Took courage; and with wine refreshed themselves:
And soon,—for through the night had fallen no rain,—
Fires kindled; and of savoury food partook;
Their garments dried; and cleansed from rust their arms.
Then, when the work was finished; and their limbs
New strength had gathered,—freely through the camp
They wandered; each the other questioning,
How he had fared; imparting each, in turn,
The tale of his own suffering. But with joy
Were all inspired; and expectation great
Of what should follow. Toward the city oft,
Marvelling, they looked; for, 'gainst the western wall,—
As on a sea-cliff when the storm is high,—
In foam and thunder dashed the furious waves
Of the o'erflooded river. Yet, no thought
Had they that, even before such dread assault,
The rock-like walls could shake. As eve drew on,
Again with food and wine were they made glad;
Then lay them down to sleep.

The king, meantime,
Safe in his strong-walled palace, at the storm
Laughed, and was glad. Each night, his sun-bright hall
Echoed the noisy banquet; and, each night,
More riotous became his mirth; more loud
His savage curses, boasts, and mockery.
“Rage on, rage on!” was still his impious cry;
“Pour down your waters, till the caitiffs drown,
And rot like vermin! Choke them with your blasts,
Ye roaring winds! ye lightnings, scorch their bones!
And ye, deep-throated thunders, bellow forth
A chorus for the dead! Rage on, rage on!
Soon will your work be done: the vulture, then,
The wild dog, and the wolf, shall tear their flesh;
And on the plain, a during monument
Of treason's fate, their whitening bones shall lie!”

Thus he, insensate; even while o'er his head
The Avenging Arm was lifted to destroy.

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On that fourth night, by their long sufferings worn,
Thirsting for sleep, the Median host lay down.
No fires were kindled; and no sentinels
Kept watch, unneeded now. The stillness deep,
Succeeding the wild hurly of the storm,—
Even as a mother's gentle song doth hush
The cradled babe,—soon lulled them to repose.
No eye of all the myriads was unclosed:
Throughout that spacious camp, of life appeared
No token; save, at intervals, the neigh
Of courser; or the murmuring tone of one
Talking in sleep.

But, had there been an eye
With lid unshut, an ear not locked in sleep,
Then, on the far horizon had been seen
The battling lightnings; over-head, the sweep
Of ponderous clouds, like breathless messengers
Hasting to tell that, with redoubled wrath,
The storm was coming: then, had well been heard
The gathering uproar of the turbulent flood,—
'Gainst the doomed city, as with ocean's might,
Hurling its deepening waters.

With a speed
Mocking the eagle's flight, the tempest came.
No rising breeze, to warn of its approach,—
At once, with fury uncontrollable,
O'er all the plain it burst. Anon, was heard
The rumbling of the thunder's iron wheels,
Upon the hurricane driving: thick as hail,
Came on the flood of lightnings. From their sleep
All started,—and, in wonder, left their tents,
To look on what was coming: for, so dire
The hurly of the elements,—it seemed
As, in her last great agony, the world
With death were struggling.

Soon, upon the earth,
O'erthrown lay every tent; and, all aghast,
Gazing around, the countless myriads stood.

'Twas midnight; but a glare was on the sky,
That might have paled mid-noon. As though the sun,

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Melting, had poured in showers of lightning down,—
Fell on the city the dense floods of fire.
All heaven seemed fire. Strange, and portentous clouds,
Like flaming mountains, flung by angry gods,—
Careered the sky; and, as with life instinct,
And keen for vengeance, scattered, as they flew,
Their blazing bolts. Yet fell no drop of rain:
Hot was that wind as from a lion's mouth,
Strong as a torrent. Few before its sweep
A moment stood; but, sinking on the ground,
In breathless awe looked on. Wall, palace, tower,
Of the great city,—'neath the incessant blaze,
Like iron in the hottest furnace glowed.
The river, in rough torrent rolling, shone
Like melted brass; and to the battlement
Dashed up its fiery foam.

As thus they gazed,
Behold! the earth beneath them, like a ship
By ocean's swell uplifted, slowly heaved;
Thundered within, and trembled,—as the hills,
When loosened rocks rush down. Some thought the towers
Nigh to the river shook: and eagerly
Thousands of fingers pointed. But again,
With yet a stronger lift the earthquake came:
And lo! the towers upon the western side,
Like trees before the tempest, rocked, and fell!
Through all its length,—like an enormous snake
Stirring in sleep,—the ponderous wall was seen
Slowly to writhe, and twist: then, suddenly,
Even as a giant in the pangs of death,
Shuddered convulsively: heaved, rolled, and reeled,—
As by a hand almighty and unseen,
From base to summit rocked:—bowed, broke, and fell,
Prone in the boiling flood!

As from a cliff
Precipitous, in mid ocean, when the storm
Lashes the deep,—the mountainous waves recoil,
With noise of thunder; and, in clouds of foam

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And spray, fly upward, higher than the mast
Of tallest ship,—even so,—beneath the stroke
Of that Titanic wall, down falling sheer,—
The turbulent flood, driven backward, gathered up
In one enormous wave; even in such cloud
Of spray and foam did the crushed water fly.

Fearful the uproar of that overthrow,—
For, as with second earthquake, shook the ground,—
Yet, in the hideous bellowing of the wind,
Came but a feeble sound, as when, far off,
A sluggish billow rakes the pebbly beach.

Of all the Median host who thereon gazed,
Stirred not a man; astonishment, and awe,
With a strange extacy conjoined, so held
Body and spirit still. Nor scarcely yet
Their senses could they trust. With eyes wide strained,
Eagerly gazed they In the rock-like wall,
A mighty gap they saw; through which, abreast,
Might thousands, horse, and foot, and chariots go.
They closed their eye-lids; opened them again;
And still was seen the same. With a fierce joy
Then 'gan their souls to kindle: for they knew
That retribution, now, indeed was sure;
And nigh at hand. Upon the tyranny,
Long-during, of that city,—on the blood
So lately, so inhumanly poured forth
By her detested ruler, did they think;
And thirsted for revenge.

As though alone
To that dread work, the earthquake, and the storm,
Had been sent forth,—at once 'gan sink their rage:
Still earth's great pulse at times throbbed tremblingly;
Still flashed the lightning; still in heaven's deep vault
The thunder muttered: but, amid its pause,
One sound alone was heard,—the roar and dash
Of the impetuous river, and the boil
Of waters writhing 'mid the giant wreck.

Then did Belesis, with a prophet's fire,
His voice uplift. “Said I not truly, then,
‘The sky doth gather up its clouds to pour

241

Upon the guilty city?’ Said I not,
‘The long enduring walls shall be cast down?’
Foretold I not that fire should utterly
Consume her temples, and her palaces;
Yea, of yon haughty mistress of the earth,
Leave blackened ashes only? Look! behold!
Already have the flames their victim seized!
No bolt, chance-driven, hath kindled up yon fires.
Ye heard the thunder only; and ye felt
The earthquake; and ye saw the lightnings fall:
But I, in opened heaven beheld enthroned
The great avenging gods, when, from the clouds,
They in their anger smote. I saw their eyes
Bent on the city, as they grasped, and hurled
The burning bolts. The thunder was their voice,
Threating destruction. To the ground they looked;
Spake the dread word; and lo! the affrighted earth
Trembled, and quaked, and the strong wall fell down.
Trust in me then, when now again I say;
The fires that in yon city ye behold,
Never shall man put out, nor rain-flood quench.
The work by Fate decreed, shall never cease,
Till in one universal ruin lie
Temple, and palace, tower, and rock-like wall;
And Nineveh shall be a name alone,
A marvel, and a tale!”

Vehémently
So cried he out: and still from place to place
Went on, the host inspiring: nor all night
His eyes could close: but on the gathering flames
Still looked exulting; still swift doom denounced
Against the guilty city.

Great indeed
Was the rejoicing throughout all the camp.
Quickly they reared again their prostrate tents;
And many with the wine-cup would have passed
The hours of night: but, with a calmer soul,
Arbaces saw; and, with a serious mien,
Checked, and admonished them. “No time for mirth,
Nor for vain glorying. Surely not our might

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These wondrous things hath done. In silent awe,
As in the immediate presence of the gods,
Thankful, and humble, rather, should we kneel,
In prayer and adoration. To our tents
Now let us go; and, every man apart,
Bow down and worship. Till the morning then,
In slumber, greatly needed, let us lie,
Our limbs to strengthen; for even yet, perchance,
Much toil must we endure. The hand of heaven
Hath now indeed a mighty gate thrown wide;
Nor bolt, nor bar, of human strength and skill,
Again can close it. But exult not yet:
In that wide breach, for many thousands still
Perchance death lies in wait. Yet, not the less,
Our way is clear: and, when the bated flood
Shall give us passage,—trusting in the gods,
Will we go on. Meantime, with hopeful mind,
Yet patiently, and thankful, let us wait.”

Awhile throughout the camp was heard the hum
Of eager voices, and the tramp of feet,
To and fro hurrying: toward the city oft
A hand was pointed, when, with ruddier gleam,
The flames shot upward: as from far he smelt
The battle, loudly many a courser neighed,
And pawed the ground: but through the camp, at length,
Stole silence; and once more all soundly slept.

On that same night, Assyria's blinded king
Again, amid his thousand lords and chiefs,
Sat at the riotous feast. A wilder joy
Than e'er before possessed him; for he deemed
His empire steadfast as the eternal hills;
His foes as but a mist about their heads,
That soon must melt and vanish. Loud were heard
The clang of harp and timbrel; loud the voice
Of singers, choiring in triumphant song,—
Him lauding as a god. With pride inflamed,
Harsh was his laugh, and bitter was his mock,

243

At the long-dreaded foe. And when, at length,
With midnight woke again the terrible storm,—
To madness rose his savage merriment.
The lightning's glare made pale his blazing lamps;
Yet nought feared he, intoxicate,—but raised
In maniac glee his arms, as he would clutch,
And hurl upon his foes, the blasting bolts.
Great thunders shook the walls; the hurricane
Howled like a countless army of the damned:
Yet but the wilder, as they louder raged,
Became his extacy: for, in that din,
Nought heard he save the withering voice of Death,
Against his enemies.

From his seat, at last,
Upspringing,—to and fro, with rapid stride,
He paced the hall. The lords, astonished, saw
His frantic gestures, and his glaring eyes.
His crimsoned face, distended veins, and lips
In eager motion, showed that to its height
His voice was lifted; yet no sound was heard,—
In thunder swallowed, and the tempest's roar.

But, suddenly pale, he stopped; for lo! the ground,
As with great blows, seemed reeling: and the walls,
Like trembling timbers of wave-battered ship,
From roof to deep foundation sharply jarred.

Up from his seat at once sprang every guest,
Pallid with terror, trembling, shrieking loud.
Some, on the glittering tables fixed their eyes,
Where gold and gems, like to a sun-kissed brook,
Quivered, and rocked; some, on the heaving floor
Gazed awe-struck, as they feared to see it ope,
And swallow them: upon the lofty roof
Looked some; and some upon the swaying walls,
As dreading momently lest they should fall,
And bury them.

In midst of all, the king
With countenance aghast, stood staggering.
But the shock passed, and not a stone had fallen.
Then grew he bold again; and, lifting up
A brimming goblet, unto all made sign

244

That they should drink: and, when their cups were filled,
Toward heaven he turned his face; and, raising high
The golden vessel, waved it round and round,
As though to call out, “Thunder, Hurricane,
The king of all the east doth pledge you now.
Go on, and conquer: ye his soldiers are,
And, in your might and terror, will strike down,
And utterly destroy his enemies.”
So he, and drank.

But, scarce his impious lips
The wine had drained, when, reeling, down he fell.
The floor was lifted; the strong pillars swayed;
The roof, and massive walls, heaved to and fro.
From every hand at once down dropped the cup:
Some, backward fell; some, o'er the tables prone:
Who fell not, tottered like to drunken men:
Distent was every eye; and every face
Corpse-like with terror.

Once again the earth,
As if beneath the stroke of some vast weight,
Trembled and jarred: and faintly, afterward,
Amid the thunder and the wind, was heard
A noise as of the dash of waves, and grate
Of rocks descending. But the ground no more
Was shaken; and the fast-subsiding storm,
Like madman when his fury-fit is gone,
Sighed off to rest.

Soon, from the floor arose
The trembling king; and staggered to his throne.
The guests rose, also, and in haste sat down:
But every countenance was blanched with awe:
And, when the monarch, with a ghastly smile,
Poured out the wine, and signed to them to drink,
Each hand seemed ague-struck. When fell the storm,
And men could hear, and speak,—with catching breath,
Dark fears were whispered: nor, though strove the king
To wake again the mirth and revelry,
Could any heart make answer. To their lips
They raised the cup, and, with a hollow laugh,

245

Mimicked a merriment; but their souls were dark
With dread of yet worse evil.

Still, resolved
The gloom to chase,—with a bold front the king
His goblet filled; and bade each guest his cup
Fill also, and drink deep.

“What looks are these!
Ye are not men,” he cried, “rulers, and chiefs,
But feeble-hearted women, if a blast
Of the rough wind, and trembling of the ground,
Can shake you thus. For thrice five hundred years
Hath stood this matchless city: thrice again,
Though hurricane and earthquake doubly rage,
And foes in tenfold number gather round,
Still must she stand; for thus the Fates decree:
Thus dead kings spake it. ‘This great Nineveh
To mortal might will never bow the knee,
Till Tigris from his bed shall 'gainst her rise;
O'ertop her battlement, and lofty towers,
And riot in her streets.’ Then be ye glad.
Not upon us, but on our enemies
Was hurled the wrath of heaven. At morn look forth,
And ye shall see on whom the bolts were shot,
For whom the earth hath gaped. Be joyous then:
Fill to the brim; and be our motto still,
‘EAT, DRINK, AND LOVE; NOUGHT ELSE IS WORTH A THOUGHT.’”

Speaking, he raised his cup; and, after him,
All filled, and gave the answer. With forced glee,
Spake many, wishing so the king to please:
But most, with inward shuddering heard again
Those ominous words, remembered but too well,
As herald of their first great overthrow.

Ere yet the acclamations all were hushed,
Without the palace a loud cry was heard,
A howl of consternation and despair.
Silent they sat, and listened; man on man
Anxiously looking, as though each of all
Would question, “What dire evil now hath fallen?”

Some rose at length, unbidden, and went forth,

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The cause to learn: the rest in mute suspense
Sat pallid; for the outcries louder grew;
And all with dread of some strange horror shook.

Anon, with faces white as sepulchre,
Shivering with fear, came they who had gone forth:
All eyes were on them fixed, all ears athirst
To catch their tidings. Like to drunken men,
Unsteadily they walked; and, nigh the king
Approaching, stood and gasped; but spake no word,
So terror froze them. With like look of fear,
The monarch on his glittering throne sat mute,
Their speech awaiting. Long time did they stand,
As they were magic-stricken: till, at length,
Impatience mastering dread, with husky voice
The king exclaimed—“Your tidings—quickly speak—
Speak,—or ye die!”

Then fell before his feet
The trembling lords; but Tartan still stood up,
And gave the answer.

“Mighty king of kings!
Make strong thy soul, for the dread doom draws nigh!
Furlongs in length, hath earthquake overthrown,
From pinnacle to base, the western wall!
Tigris, like angry ocean, hath arisen!
O'ertops fallen battlement, and shattered tower,
And riots in the streets!”

Like one who sees
A spectre in the darkness, glared the king:
He strove to rise; but all his strength was gone:
He strove to speak; but his relaxing jaw
Dropped nerveless. In a cold collapse, like death,
He shrank together, even as shrinks a leaf,
By lightning blasted.

Round him came in haste
A pitying few; and, with a tender care,
Unto his chamber bore him. But the rest
Girt up their robes, and from the palace fled,
Speechless with terror. Some unto their homes
Retired; and gathered up their gems and gold,

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On flight intent; for now indeed all knew
The day of doom was nigh.

With trembling limbs,
Some to the fatal breach walked hastily,
With their own eyes to see the yawning mouth
Of great Assyria's sepulchre.

Oh! night
Of ruin, and of dread! From wall to wall,
Throughout the city sounds the voice of woe!
The dead are floating in the deluged streets:
In every quarter flare the heaven-lit fires.
Gone are the thunder-clouds: the waning moon
Through a thin vapour sheds her ghastly light
On the great chasm, and on the boiling flood.
Nigh to the foamy margin, stream the flames
Of countless torches, hurrying to and fro;
While drowning wretches, in their agony,
Beat on the torrent waves, and, shrieking, sink!

From house-top, temple, tower, and battlement,
The awe-struck myriads silently look on,
And know the day of their destruction nigh!

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BOOK THE TWENTY-SIXTH.

Resplendent as on that great morn he rose,
When, from the inmost depth of heaven's immense,
The bright eternal solitude of God,
Came forth the word,—unspoken, yet through all
The palpitating heart of nature felt,—
Bidding the waters of the flood dry up,
And the drowned earth a second life begin,—
The ardent sun, from his long night of cloud,
Triumphantly arose—again to urge,
Through heaven's clear depths, above a smiling world,
His dazzling car of fire, and lightning steeds.

Yet not to that crushed city heralding
Advent of life renewed: despairing eyes
Met his uprising; eyes that all the night
In sleep had never closed: and, for the hymn
Of joy that should have hailed his coming up,
Was heard the cry of lamentation loud:
For the sweet placid hour of opening day,
When men, refreshed, look forth on earth and sky,
And bless the sweet breath of the youthful morn,—
Was now a time of anguish, and of toil.
They who all night had labored, labored still:
Yet were the fires unquenched; yet unremoved
The ruins under which lay thousands crushed.

Distractedly along the torrent's marge
Ran many, seeking if, among the drowned,
Were father, son, or mother, or young child,
Husband, or lover, lost. Some, on the wall,
Like moping idiots,—with dull staring eye,

249

And mouth agape,—upon the mighty wreck
Of that once deemed eternal, gazing sat.

With burning brow, and look of care, toiled some,
Their silver, gold, and jewels,—with aught else
Of rare, and costly,—for a hasty flight,
To set in order: some, with hearts bowed down,
Sat pale and helpless; 'gainst their fate to strive,
Deeming all labor vain. Throughout the walls
Of that stupendous city, was not one
Who on that morning with light heart arose.

Far otherwise, within the Median camp,
Was hailed the glorious sunrise. With the dawn,
Upstarted every man; and every eye,
As though even yet might all be but a dream,
Looked eagerly, to see again the work
Of flood, and earthquake, on the rock-like wall.

Exulting, they beheld the ghastly chasm,
And the fierce river, like a stormy sea,
Boiling and foaming 'mid the giant wreck;
For there they saw the broad and sure highway
Through which, erelong, their banners should be borne
To triumph, and to vengeance.

All the day
The sounds of joy were heard: with food, and wine,
Their limbs were strengthened: and impatiently
The time they waited, when the flooded stream
Should ebb, and give them passage.

While the day
Was yet but young, Arbaces to his tent
The leaders summoned, and brief conference held.
Then Azareel, the faithful, and, with him,
Almelon, reverend in his weight of years,
He singled from the rest, and thus bespake.
“A herald call; and to the city speed:
Yet, to the presence of the king go not:
But, when the rulers and the chiefs are met,
Calmly thus speak to them: ‘Why longer now
Should ye against us struggle? The just gods

250

A gate have opened to us; and no strength
Of man again can close it. Then, submit.
Lay down your arms: unto your conquerors swear
Lasting allegiance; and untouched may all
The city leave: your daughters, and your wives,
Unharmed may pass: and, wheresoe'er ye will,
There may ye go. But take not with you gold,
Silver, or precious stones; for these, a debt
To the long plundered nations shall be held.
One man except, to every living soul
Within your gates, we life and safety pledge:
The tyrant and the murderer, alone,
Must die the death. For him let no man plead:
Mercy herself 'gainst him would shut the ear;
So unto gods and man alike is he
Loathsome, abominable! But, if ye
Our offer scorn, and blindly still resist,—
Then surely every man that beareth arms
Ye doom to perish! ye for bondslaves give
Your mothers, and your daughters, and your wives,
Your fathers, and your sons,—yea, every soul
That shall escape the sword.’

“Thus to the chiefs
Say ye; yet not with bearing arrogant,
Word, look, or tone offensive. Bid them think,
Their wall is overthrown; their city in flames;
Their armies wasted; help for them a dream.
As to an ill inevitable, then,
Let them with grace submit; nor, weakly proud,
By vain opposal, tenfold bitterness
Pour in the cup from which, by Fate's decree,
Perforce they all must drink.”

Here ceased the Mede:
The council was dissolved; and, with all haste,
Almelon, and the ardent Azareel,
A herald summoning, into a car
Joyfully rose, and toward the nearest gate
Urged the swift horses.

Warders, looking out,
Beheld them; and,—their solemn mission heard,—
Drew bolt, raised massive bar, and opened wide.

251

Meantime, in hurried council, at the house
Of Jerimoth, the anxious leaders sat.
For, to the king when they that morn had sent,
His will to know, or for a conference sue,—
Sternly had he the trembling messengers,
With words like these, repulsed. “Trouble me not;
Nor dare to vex me more. All talk is vain:
Let every man that would from ruin 'scape,
Gather his silver, gold, and precious gems;
And, ere the enemy block up the gates,
Take parents, wife, and children; and make speed
To leave the city: for the day is nigh
When she shall utterly perish!”

At these words,
Sad were the hearts of all: but some, with wrath
Against the monarch burned,—seeing that thus,
In their great strait, did he abandon them.
Some, counselled parley with the enemy,
Time so to gain; till, haply, might arrive
Strong succour; by whose aid, the tide of war,
Even yet, might back be turned. Some, urged to build
An inner wall, and to the last resist.
Others derided, saying, “ere the stones
Be got together, or the trench be dug,
The enemy will enter like a flood.”

Apart unto their fellows whispered some,
“The city burns, and none the flames can quench:
The wall is open; and the foe at hand,
Couched like a lion ready for the spring:
Sardanapalus leaves us in our need;
Why should we spend our blood for him, who nought
Cares for himself, or us? Better at once
Choose for our king Arbaces: ruled by him,
No enemy need we dread: of small account
Were then the breach, now threatening fate to all;
And, with his myriads for our aid, erelong,
The fires that, else, will the whole city burn,
Were speedily extinct.”

Among their friends,
Thus whispered some; but none, with open voice,
Dared yet propound it; for in reverence still,

252

Though censuring, did the nobler spirits hold
That last link of the long and splendid chain
Of great Assyria's kings.

While thus, confused
By clashing counsels, sat the troubled chiefs,—
Word came that, with a herald, from the Mede,
Two captains conference craved. At once was hushed
The tumult: and, in low tone, man with man
Closely conferred; conjecturing anxiously
On what might be the message of the foe;
And what should be replied.

But, in brief time,
The Medes arrived; and, when all silent sat,
Almelon, in few words, and with such look
And tone as best might sweeten the sour draught,
Their message fully spake. On him all eyes
Were fixed attentive; every ear was quick,
Ere yet 'twas spoken, to catch up the word.
Nor, at the first, seemed great their discontent;
For, than submission, what less could be claimed
By an all-powerful foe: but when, at last,
With sterner voice, Almelon spake the doom
Against the king decreed,—then from his seat
Leaped Jerimoth, his eye-balls flashing fire:
“Enough, enough!” vehémently he cried:
“Sacred your office makes you, or these words,
Accursed, and insolent, had been your last!
To them who sent you, haste. This our reply.
‘Our rampart is cast down; our city in flames;
But, while one stone upon another stands;
While foot can move, and arm can lift a sword,—
To death will we defy you!’ What base things
Are we, then, held, that, with such infamy,
Ye dare insult us! Death, or slavish bonds,—
Forced on us,—were less ignominy far
Than such vile traffic for a little breath!
We'll hear no more. Go hence, and speedily.
Bear back our answer: soften not a word;
And bid them do their worst.”

While hotly thus,

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With gesture fierce, and countenance inflamed,
Spake Jerimoth,—Almelon raised his hand,
Signing forbearance, craving to be heard.
With look not less imploring, Azareel
His hands uplifted also; and, two steps
Toward the hot chief advancing, raised his voice.

But, through the assembly, now, wild tumult raged:
At once a hundred tongues spake eagerly;
And no man from the rest could hearing gain.

At length Nebaioth, and Sennacherib,
Apart led Jerimoth; and, with mild words,
Counselled forbearance; and his rage appeased.

Nebaioth then unto the Median chiefs
Spake privately: “Ye see with what amaze
Your message, stern and unexpected all,
Hath overcome us; and that none aright
Knoweth, as yet, what it were well to do.
Give us, then, still a little time for thought,
And for debate: for, in the fiery speech
Of Jerimoth, ye have not heard the mind
Of all the council. To Arbaces, then,
Bear not his testy answer: but retire
Where I shall lead you; and in patience wait,
Till on reply we fix.”

These temperate words
Pleased well the Medes: and Azareel, the hand
Of his young enemy taking, thus replied:
“Nebaioth, though against us hast thou stood
With hottest zeal,—yet, for a generous foe,
We all do know thee. When the time shall come
That we as friends in one great cause shall stand,—
Then be our love more ardent than, ere yet,
Our fiercest enmity. But now, oh! now,
With words of wisdom, and of eloquence,
Unto the hearts of the proud chiefs lay siege.
The earthquake that rent wide your rock-like wall,
Not more resistless than the fate which now
Heaven hath decreed against you! Then, submit.
From one man only, mercy is shut out.
Hath he deserved that, in devotion blind,

254

Myriads for him their lives should sacrifice,—
And vainly?—for, though tens of myriads first
For him should perish, not less sure his doom.
Oh! bid them ponder, then; and wiser thoughts
Call to direct them: else, will misery,
Unutterable, come upon you all!”

To him Nebaioth: “Cruel is the strait
In which we stand: nor see I well, as yet,
How best to counsel, so that honor pure,
By prudence be not fouled. Yet, not my thoughts,
But those of the assembled chiefs, must rule.
Come with me now; lest, by your presence checked,
Men speak not out their minds: and, when, at length,
On purpose we decide, I will return,
And hither bring you, our reply to hear.”

So he; and to an inner chamber led
The ambassadors,—well pleased, and hopeful now
Of happy issue.

But, not unobserved
Had they retired: and, when Nebaioth now
Returned among them,—many voices rose,
Enquiring, whither they had gone, and why.
And, when he answered them, among the most
Was gladness, that yet time remained for thought:
And that the first hot words of Jerimoth
Stood not for their reply.

In close debate,
Angry and loud, at times, then entered they.
But when, like meeting rivers, which, long while
Warring together, mix at last their waves,
And, in one channel, murmuring, take their way,—
The long contending wranglers ceased to jar;
And answer was agreed on,—to the Medes
Nebaioth went, though with slow foot, and sad,—
For much he feared the issue,—and once more
Before the rulers brought them, and the chiefs,
That they might hear it.

When all silent sat,
Rose Jerimoth; and, on the expecting Medes
His bright eye fixing, bluntly thus began.

255

“The words I spake,—unpleasing to the rest,—
Give, or withhold; for, either way, to me
Nought matters it: yet, mark ye,—as my own,
Not as the answer of the assembled chiefs,
Let them be spoken. For the general voice,
Thus the reply.

“‘To your most stern demand,
An iron fate compels us to give ear.
If, by the gods' decree, our towers of strength
Must yield to you,—submissively we bow:
Even let our women, and our little ones,
Our sons, and aged parents, wander forth,
That ye may riot in our quiet homes,
And wallow in our spoil: even let our walls,
Or stand, or in thick smoke go up to heaven,
As best shall please you: but, of noble men,
Why ask ye that, which, for all time to come,
Must black them with dishonor? Why to us
Proffer ye life; and liberty to go,
Unquestioned, unmolested, wheresoe'er
Choice, or blind chance, may lead us,—yet, to him,
Who all our homage, all our duty claims,—
And now the most, when by fate's ruthless heel
Trampled, and strengthless—grace, or favor, none
Will grant at all; but death inevitable
Pronounce upon him? Why 'gainst him alone
This pestilent malice? And what dastard slaves,
Hateful to all the world, should we become,
Him in his last great need abandoning,
Our own brief lives to save! Leave free the king:
From us no oath of blind allegiance claim:
Let him, like us, another city seek,
Or other empire found,—then, to your hands
We yield ourselves, and will the gates throw wide,
That ye may enter: but, if for his blood,
Tiger-like, still ye thirst,—then blood for blood,
A deluge will be shed; for not one foot,
Save with the lives of thousands, shall ye gain.
All men must die: and, to the noble mind,
Whether to-morrow, or long ages hence,

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Small matter, so he but with honor die.
Long life, with infamy, were but a curse,
And we reject it. Then with you it rests,
A poor revenge on one man to forego,
Or, that to gain, the blood of myriads shed!’

“Such is our answer: and the eternal rock
Not more unbending than our fixed resolve.
Reply not then; but, with what speed ye may,
Haste to report it.”

Silently, and sad,
The Medes arose, and to the camp returned.

Amid the assembled leaders when they stood,
And told their tidings,—all awhile sat mute.
But, with a smile upon his lips, at length,
Belesis rose, and to Arbaces thus:
“Declared I not all labor would be vain,
Their hearts to change; or, from the fate decreed,
To save the guilty city? Their own will,
Maugre the will of man, the gods still work;
And, from the earth's foundations, have they doomed,
At the due time, this city's overthrow,
And utter desolation. Lo! their wall
Is rent asunder; and the ravenous fires
Devour their dwellings; yet still hard as stone
Remain their hearts; and will, till in one heap
Of smoking ruins the proud city lie.”

To him no answer made the sorrowing Mede;
But, with few words the chiefs dismissing, passed
To the inner tent; alone and silent there
With his own heart to counsel.

Dark, and stern,
That morning from his bed had risen the king.
His fate inevitable now he knew;
And how to meet it pondered. With harsh words,
He to his captains conference refused:
And when, with cheeks tear-sprinkled, Tartan came,
And told the summons of the haughty Mede,
And what had been replied,—his answer still

257

Was but the same: “Let no man trouble me,
Nor for me care; but each, as best he may,
Take what he hath of costly,—gold, or gems,—
And, with his parents, wife, and children, flee,
Ere yet the enemy block up the gates,
And chain you to your doom. Let no man hope:
Help is impossible; nor Bel himself
Could from destruction his own city save.
Then, while the way yet open lies, bid all,
Who still would live, haste forth. But, as for me,
Here, where the glory of my life hath been,
Shall be my death-place too. I cannot fly;
I cannot yield me to a rebel's arm;
But I can die: and, dying, shall be still
Their master,—snatching from their insolent grasp
The monarch whom, with most pestiferous breath,
They would insult, then slay. Of this enough:
Wipe from thine eyes those womanish drops; then list.
To thee his last command Assyria's king
Hath yet to give. From out the walls this night
My children shall I send; and treasure such,
That unto each a monarch's wealth will be.
In Paphlagonia, with mine ancient friend
The satrap Cotta, a brave, upright man,
Will they find safety. Tartan, to thy charge,
As from my death-bed, I commit them now.
Take all my chariots, for no heavy wains
Must cumber your swift flight: take likewise all
That once were hers—my noble, beauteous queen!
Ah! blest so soon to die! for life had now
Been torture insupportable! Great gods!
I have been mad—mad—mad!”

He ceased; tore out
Distractedly his hair; his garments rent;
Beat on his bosom; moaned, and wailed aloud.

Tartan, his head averting, with both hands
Covered his face, and wept.

But, in brief time,
His soul re-manning, thus, with faltering tongue,
The grief-struck king pursued: “Forbear, forbear:

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Sorrow is useless now: when thou art far
From this lost city; and no task remains,
Calling to action,—then thy tears pour forth;
And mourn for him who, had he not been king,
Perchance had been less wretched, and less wrong.
Mark now my last command. Two thousand horse,
In mail complete, the choicest of the host,
Have thou at sunset nigh the palace gate,
Fronting the south. The chariots in the court
Shall bide their coming. With my children place
Thy blooming wife: and whomsoe'er beside
From ruin thou would'st save, them also place
In chariots nigh at hand. Of gems, and gold,
Take, as thy guerdon, amply, royally.
For thy whole life to come must thou provide;
Since all thine own possessions soon will pass
To rebel hands, or perish in the flames.
Go through my palace then; take what thou wilt;
For nought to me is estimable more;
And what thou shalt not take, will be the spoil
Of the detested Mede. Three cars apart,
With richest treasure laden, are prepared:
Each by a hundred, picked from out the best,
Night and day guarded. Unto Cotta, two,
One, to Nitocris take. When, first, in care
Of that just man thou hast my children placed;
And their great riches to his upright hands
Surrendered duly,—to Nitocris then,
The sister of my queen, and once, alas!
By me too foully wronged,—speed instantly.
Thou know'st of old her dwelling. Keep with thee
The mail-clad horse whom hence thou wilt lead forth;
For precious is the freight; and robbers now,
And plundering troops, will swarm throughout the land.

“The car, by Uriel ruled, conduct thou then
With jealous care: and, when within her gates
It shall be taken,—to Nitocris thus,
Say thou in private. ‘From Assyria's lord,
Sardanapalus, last of that long line
Of monarchs most illustrious, am I come.

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As from his tomb, receive the words I speak;
For in the shades of death he wanders now!
Thus said the king: Behold! the gods, incensed,
Have brought destruction over all my realm.
The earthquake, and the flood, have overthrown
My wall, deemed everlasting: foes at hand,
Innumerable, soon will pour within.
My days are few; my heart is desolate;
Yet mighty still. Assyria's lord shall ne'er,
For insolent rebels be a mockery:
Nor will ingloriously by flight prolong
A life he loathes: nor o'er the wreck of power,
In moping melancholy, idiot-like,
Sit brooding: but, as he a king hath lived,
By his own hand will, still a king, expire.
Nitocris, sister to my noble queen,—
Ah timely gone!—as from the grave, I ask
Thy full forgiveness. All intoxicate
With power; and to my passions still the slave,
I knew not what I did. Be then the offence
With my cold ashes buried: and when thought
Of the lost king ariseth, be his name
Not with dishonor spoken. For a gift
Of brotherly love, from this great treasure sent,
Take thou the third: wealth for thy utmost wants;
Yea, for the splendor of a kingly throne,
Amply sufficient: but the rest remains
For them who have found refuge in thy gates.’

“When, Tartan, to the sister of my queen
Thou hast thus spoken; earnestly implore
That to thy presence may my child be brought,
Nehushta; and the youth who with her fled,
Prince Dara,—for with her do they abide,—
As I this very morn have surely learned
From one who there beheld them,—and are bound,
In knot of marriage. Haply, had I still
Been the world's monarch, this had roused my wrath.
But noble is the youth; of royal blood;
And well he loves her. I am then content;
Yea joyful; for, of parents both bereft,

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Peril had else beset her. To thy words
Nitocris will give heed: and, when they come
Into thy presence,—on my daughter's head
Place thou thy hands, as mine I place on thee,
And say, ‘The blessing of thy father, dead,
Be on thee evermore; and on the youth
Whom thou hast wedded! Long and happy years
Be yours; contentment, health, and virtuous life!
And may your children, and their children live
An honor and a blessing to your age;
And leave to all posterity a name
Beloved and worshipped!’

“Then, when she hath risen,—
For she will kneel; I know my child will kneel,
To the deputed blessing,—speak thou on.
‘Thus to the daughter of his love doth say
Assyria's fallen king. Forgive, my child,
That, in extremity of threatening fate,
Thy life I seemed to peril: but, be sure,
No power of man, nor even the gods' command,
Audibly spoken, could have forced me on
To the abhorred completion. Auguries,
Boldly delivered as the voice of heaven;
And visions of the night, deceitful all,
Had taught me that mere show of that dire act,—
Obedience 'tokening,—by the wrathful gods
Would be accepted; and the sacrifice
Demanded not. My people then to save,
I bade prepare the altar. Thee had Fate,—
Or what appeared the hand of heaven itself,—
As victim singled: and a tongue accursed,
Frenzied, or fiendish, urged me ever on,
Even to the last dire end,—if in the fight
Should still the foe prevail: but crown, and life,
Power, and dominion, all had I resigned,
Rather than with thy pure and innocent blood
Insured them, though had tenfold been their worth.
Show of obedience only, to the black,
The hellish mandate, did I sanction then;
But, with most stern command, on pain of death,

261

The act did interdict. Thus, seemingly,
But never in the truth,—thy wretched sire
Did to thy death consent. Even from his grave,
He calleth on thee to forgive him then;
Nor speak his name with curses,—as, perchance,
Malicious men, or ignorant of the truth,
Might, else, have taught thee.’

“Tartan, when thou thus
Unto my child hast spoken; and when she,
After awhile, her tears hath wiped away,—
Then, to the chamber be the treasures brought;
Thyself the work o'erlooking. And now, mark.
When the strong oaken planks, with iron bound,
Which all the chariot's cavity enclose,
Shall have been opened,—thou wilt find within
Three roomy chests: of sandal wood is one,
Two are of cedar. Task for four strong men,
Picked from a host, would be each chest to lift.
Then, to the chamber when they shall be borne,—
Upon the single chest of sandal wood
Lay thou thy hand, and to Nitocris say;
‘This gift, while yet he lived, and was a king,
Sardanapalus to the sister loved
Of his most noble and lamented queen,
Did send, to be her own for evermore.
Take it; be happy; and the past forget.’

“And when she hath her hand upon it placed,
Accepting it, and hath the answer given,—
Then, on the boxes twain of cedar wood
Lay thou thy hands, and to my daughter say:
‘These gifts, Assyria's most unhappy king,
Unto his child, his loved Nehushta, sends,
To be her own for ever. Take them then;
Be happy, and be good; both thou and thine!
Thy father pardon; but forget him not.’

“These words when thou hast said; and when my child
Upon the chests her tender hands hath placed,
Accepting them,—then is thy task performed;
The last injunction of thy sometime lord

262

Is well discharged; and thou art ever free.
And if, as some have taught, the spirit of man,
From flesh disjoined, doth wander o'er the earth,
Noting the deeds of men; and o'er their fate
Not powerless, or for evil, or for good,
Then shall my grateful ghost thee aid and bless
Through all thy life to come.—Yet, for myself,
Total oblivion, endless night, a blank
Such as to me was all ere life began,
Were happiest, best! for, in what future time,
Could I forget the past: and what, to me,
Dis-throned, and powerless, were eternity,
Save an unending anguish! But enough:
For private thought be this. Thou now hast heard,
And well dost understand, the last behest
Of one, to thee no tyrant, whatsoe'er
By others he be deemed. Farewell! be true;
Be just; in all things honorable be,
As thou hast ever been: and, when this storm,
Now desolating, shall have passed away,
Again wilt thou be happy.”

Having said,
Around the weeping youth his arms he cast,
And strained him to his bosom.

With bowed head,
Sobbing, and trembling, Tartan went: and he,
The miserable king, upon his couch
Heavily groaning, sank: yet tears shed none:
Their fountain was dried up. As, in one night,
Had twenty years upon him laid their weight,
His face was shrunk, and agëd. All alone,
Corpse-like he lay; and unto none would speak;
Nor food, or wine, would taste.

But, toward the night,
When word was brought him, that, in safety all,
And undisturbed, unthreatened by the foe,
His children, with the chariots and the horse,
Had from the Phrygian gate, in order firm,
Gone forth; and now were far upon the plain,—
Then, as a load were suddenly uplift

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From soul and body, he, with brightening face,
Bade set before him food: and, eagerly
As a parched traveller in the desert drinks
Of the cool liquid diamond, drank he,
In long and copious draughts, inspiring wine.

Anon to him was said; “Behold! my lord,
The watchers on the southern battlement
Have seen from far the torches moving on,
Till now in utmost distance are they lost;”
Then more his heart was glad. But when, at length,
Again the word was brought, “O king of kings!
The men who on the highest pinnacles,
And on the mound of Ninus, keep the watch,
Have seen the torches, even like sinking stars,
Beyond the farthest stretch of sight go down;
Yet sign or sound of foe there hath been none,”—
Then, with loud voice, and with a ringing laugh,—
That seemed like joy, yet was but merriment
Of madness mocking misery,—he called,
And bade musicians play, and women sing,
And dance before him, as in times of old.
And, ever and anon, he lifted up
The ruby goblet, and cried out, “Ha! ha!
'Tis brave; 'tis beautiful; again, again.”

His eyes were bright as tiger's in the gloom;
Red as hot coals his cheeks: but, as the worm
That gnaws the dead, already were within,
Eating his heart,—on every feature stamped,
Was a strange ghastliness; a grave-like mark;
As though the cold and bony hand of Death
Had pressed, and shrunk the flesh; or, as the life
That glowed within the burning body yet,
Were but the stirring of some fiendish thing,
Within a new-made corpse.

So revelled he,
As ne'er before he revelled; as no more,
Save once, he e'er should revel.

Hot, and loud,
Delirious, but not joyful, through the night
Thus on he fared: and, when the sun arose,

264

Starring with gems each dewy blade of grass,
And from their night of slumber calling up,
As with a voice of gladness and of love,
All birds, and beasts, and every happy thing,
That on the earth, or in the waters lives,—
The wretched master of the world's great throne,
In a hot darkness, covering, as a pall,
Body and soul alike, sank down to sleep.

265

BOOK THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.

While yet the king his feverish revel held,
Arbaces, from a hot and sleepless bed,—
For his soul grieved when on the woes he thought
Of that Fate-destined city,—rose, and walked
In the sweet air and silence of the dawn,
That he might cool the burning of his brow,
In stillness meditate, and fix resolve.
Loose was his robe; uncovered was his head:
The light breeze stirred his locks of wavy gold.
By care his face was marked: as though with pain,
His high expansive front magnificent,
Was dark, and wrinkled: close were pressed those lips,
Firm, and majestic; and all eloquent
Of the great soul within: of gentleness,
Of justice, and benevolence, in peace;
Of power, and burning ardor, in the strife.

Through the wide ruin of the wall, at length,
His calm, grand eye, clear as the starry night,
On the lost city pensively he fixed;
Marking how, since the eve, the ravening flames
Black chasms had left, where once had been the homes.
Sacred, perchance, to peace, and all the joys
Of love domestic. Picturing thus the bliss
For ever gone, the miseries yet to be,
Tears filled his eyes; and fain had he resigned
Power, and ambition; and to humblest life

266

Descended,—so, by that self-sacrifice,
Those ills he might have stayed; yet gained the good,
For which alone the strife.

Resolved, at length,
Soon as the sun, by the glad myriads hymned,
Above the eastern mountains had arisen,—
The princes, and the leaders, to his tent
He summoned: and, when all were well refreshed,
His thoughts made known; nor opposition found.

Almelon then, and fervent Azareel,
Again selecting, he addressed them thus.
“Once more, my friends, unto the city speed;
And to the rulers and the captains say:
‘Are ye not blind,—for one most wicked man,
To call on heads of myriads, innocent,
Assured destruction! What can ye expect?
Your wall is opened wide; the ebbing flood,
In few days more, will leave a broad highway
For thousands, ranked abreast, to pour within:
Nor have ye strength to stay us. Ere the night,
Our horse and chariots will your gates block up:
Ye cannot flee; ye cannot stand in fight:
Your city burns; ye cannot quench the flames.
Were we so bloody-minded,—every man,
And every woman, every living thing
Within your walls, to death might we devote.
But pity moves us: and the brotherly hand,—
Were peace assured,—to all would we extend.
The galling yoke is broken evermore,
Wherewith, for ages, hath Assyria's power
Enslaved the nations; and the East is free.
What would ye, then? Would ye weak mortals tempt,
In pride of conquest, on yourselves the yoke
Retributive to place? Ye have no hope:
Ye cannot conquer; cannot long resist:
Contending, ye must fall. If, then, our blood
Thus needlessly, thus wantonly ye shed,
What can ye look for, but such vengeance dire
As may all future despots pale with dread,
And make the gentle weep? Oh tempt us not!
Weak are the strongest; foolish the most wise!

267

When boils the blood, its fumes make reason drunk;
And deeds are done, at which the nobler soul,
Recovering, shudders. Once more do we call;
Once more implore you, for yourselves and us,
To stay the scourge of war. Your costly gems,
Your gold, and silver,—spoil of lands enslaved,—
Must to your conquerors now be rendered back.
Plain justice this: but, on allegiance sworn,
Have we not offered life, and liberty?
What would ye more? Yet, lasting peace to gain,
More do we grant you. Hear, and ponder well!

“‘Whoso, before to-morrow's noon, shall come
Submissive, and his arms before us lay,
Swearing allegiance,—he as one of us
Shall be regarded: and, when from the walls
Are sent the contumacious, shall remain,
Possessing still his home, and household wealth,—
If such the flames have spared,—and 'gainst him none
Shall cast reproach. Yea, if from out the gates
Come all the people,—unto every man
Such grace shall be: and, when the costly spoil,
Rent from the nations, hath been taken back;
And we a king have chosen, who, with right,
With justice, and beneficence shall rule,—
Then, to the old in-dwellers, cheerfully,
Will we the city yield; and homeward go.

“‘But, to her ancient limits, from that day,
Assyria must return,—room large enough
For proudest monarch,—and all other lands,
Late tributary, must be wholly free;
Each a self-governed kingdom; to none else
In aught accountable. What say ye, then?
Were ye not blind, and barbarous, such terms
Indulgent to reject? And for what end?
To save from punishment one tyrant king,
Who unto all mankind hath been a scourge:
Whose food hath been of broken hearts; whose breath,
His victims' sighs. Oh! for such cause, draw not
On myriads innocent an awful fate!
That man must die! By earth and heaven alike,
Irrevocably hath his doom been fixed:

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And, though ye perish all,—ye save not him.
Alone, then, let him die: and on the earth
May peace descend for ever! If at once
Ye do consent,—then, by a solemn oath,
That which we now have said, will we confirm:
And, pouring all our host into your gates,—
With brotherly zeal, regarding neither toil,
Hardship, nor peril,—day and night will strive,
The flames to quench, which, longer uncontrolled,
Too surely will in utter ruin lay
This great and glorious city.

“‘But, if ye,
Guilty, not less than mad, will still resist,—
Then on your heads alone be all the weight
Of ills to fall! As conquerors strike we then,
Who would have come as friends. But, be ye wise;
And, for yourselves and us, such fate avert.’

“So to the rulers and the captains speak;
And be not soon repulsed: for if, at first,
With hot speech they reply,—speak yet again,
Conjuringly; and, taking, if ye may,
The bolder men apart,—in private urge,
And with new force, what publicly ye spake.
Go swiftly then; and may the all-ruling gods
Your labors bless!”

When they had gone, once more
To the chief leaders turning, thus he spake.
“Take chariots, horse, and tents,—of food, and wine,
A six days' full provision. Hasten then;
And all the distant city-gates well guard,
That none may issue. But if, suppliant,
The men come forth,—their arms delivering up,
And a safe passage craving to our camp,—
Untouched let them proceed. Or, if you see
Unwarlike men, who with their wives come forth,
Their children, or their parents,—let them pass:
Nay, if their household goods they bear away,
Give them free room: for, not against the weak
And humble do we war. But, if ye see
That men of prouder mien do issue forth,
With cars, or loaded wains,—them must ye stay,

269

And closely search; that neither gems, nor gold,
Be taken from our spoil. But, most of all,
By day, and night, let heedful watch be kept,
Lest that the tyrant 'scape. With wary eye,
Scan every face: for, haughty though he is;
Ay, in his own conceit scarce less than God;
Yet, life to save, in the most mean disguise,
Yea in the beggar's tatters, might he shroud
His deity; and triumph in the guile.
Then look to all; and, whom ye doubt, bring here.”

Again before the council of the chiefs
And rulers of the city, with calm voice,
And not as missives from a conqueror,
Almelon, and the faithful Azareel,
Pleading, conjuring, and exhorting stood.

Their task accomplished,—to an inner room,
Nebaioth leading them, again they went,
There to await reply; and instantly,
In hot debate, thoughts jarring, voices raised,
The captains plunged; and mere confusion reigned.

Some, and no few, then inwardly resolved
The offered grace to accept; and privily,
Ere next day's noon, unto the camp repair;
Make full submission, and swear solemnly
Allegiance to the Mede; so of their life,
Their home, and household wealth, to be assured;
For in Arbaces every man had trust;
And all too surely saw that hope was none,
And that resistance but worse fate would bring.

So every cautious, every timid man,
Consoled himself, and said, “If, by my death,
Life to Assyria's monarch might be bought,
Good purchase were it: but, my breath of life
Not, like a worn-out garment, may be cast
Unheeded from me, and for no return.
Hot-headed fools, like fiery Jerimoth,
May love their honor better than their life;
And die to save it: but, when life is gone,
What weighs their honor then? The jackall's howl
Above the tomb,—to him who therein rots,
Were just as welcome, as a hymn of praise,

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From mourning myriads. Let me, while I can,
Live, and enjoy myself, and take my fill
Of what the gods have given me. The bright hall
More suits me, than the gloomy sepulchre:
The vine's rich juice, more than the grave's dry dust:
I like the sunshine, and the stir of life;
And have no taste for the cold quietness
Of even the most illustrious monument.
Death must o'ertake, run from him as I may;
But I'll not run to meet him.—So farewell,
Assyria's king. Before me lie two roads;
With thee, to death; thee leaving, to new life.
I choose the last.”

Their fear, and selfishness,
Some thus excused: yet none dared speak aloud
The ignoble purpose; for the bolder hearts
Still firmly stood; all resolute, with the king
Rather to die, than basely purchase life,
By him deserting: and the timid shrank,
'Gainst men like these to lift their puny voice,
In counsel cold and selfish.

Some there were,
Valiant as those, but wiser, who the minds
Of hotter men, with calm words strove to cool.
Some were there, also, who, among the rest,
Whispered report of succours drawing nigh;
Armies expected long,—though what, or whence,
None rightly understood,—by whose strong aid,
If but delay were gained, great things even yet
Might be accomplished.

After long debate,
And stormy,—to the Median captains went
Nebaioth; and reluctantly thus spake.
“Our minds are all discordant; and no voice
Hath o'er the others sway: thus, answer clear
We cannot render: but return ye now,
And to Arbaces and the captains say,
‘Ere noon to-morrow, shall an embassy
Go from the city; and report to you
The general resolve.’”

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These words, the Medes
Heard doubtingly; inclined the head, and went.

For long hours still, the hot Assyrian chiefs
Tumultuous conference held: yet o'er the rest
Could none at last prevail. They parted then;
And, for the early morrow, fixed return
To final council.

But, ere set the sun,
From out the gates went many a steed and car;
Of men on foot went thousands; and their arms
Unto the Medes delivered; and the oath
Of true allegiance swore. From out the gates
Went also, both that night, and on the morn,
Women, and children, in great multitudes,
On mules, and asses, riding; and, on wains,
By oxen drawn, and mules, their household goods
Bearing away; and weeping as they went.
For, throughout all the city, soon was known
The message of the Medes: and, when they heard
That from Arbaces had the promise come,—
Firm faith had all. They, then, who purposed flight,
Went fearlessly; and, to the Median horse
And chariots, nigh the gates, submission made:
With kindness were received; and hindered not.

But, on the morrow, when, in council met,
These things unto the rulers and the chiefs
Had been made known; and when they also found
That from among themselves had gone no few,
Who in the Median camp, as enemies,
Now stood against them,—scorn, and rage, burst forth.
Themselves to die, resolved, ere basely yield,—
Nought were they shaken: and the brief debate,
Though stormy, ending, thus spake Jerimoth.
“At length, then, we are fixed. The rotten few
Have dropped away; and all the sound are left;
The stronger for the severance. Our fate
We know, and boldly meet. Whate'er his faults,
The king is yet our king: and though he still,
Despairing, holds aloof,—yet, with our lives,
His life we'll shield; with him will live, or die.

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Our soldiers all are true; and, to the last,
For homes, and altars, and the king of kings,
Will stand within the breach; yea pile a wall
Of their dead bodies, 'gainst his murderers
To bar the passage. If in this great cause
Our fate be death,—we shall at least have lived
In honor to the last: and, through the world,
Our names, like bright stars, will for ever shine;
Admired, and worshipped: we shall die, to live
Like gods, 'mong future men;—far nobler life
Than that which is but animated earth;
Dependent on each breath; and shared alike
By every crawling, every noxious thing.
Such death were glorious riches, then, not loss:
As such we leap to seize it; rather far
Than, by dishonor, basely win a life
Which were the bitterest death; a living death;
Death to the soul; and life to but the clay:
Life such as hath the worm, the toad, the asp,
Or, meaner still, the cringing, dastard man,
Hated by all, and hateful to himself:
A breathing plague-spot; a still rotting sore;
A thing, 'gainst which the brave man stops the nose,
Turning aside with loathing. Never be
On us such infamy! Why, what hath life,
In all its pleasures, all its sensual joys,
To match the extatic rapture of the soul,
When in the thick of battle offering up,
For a good cause, the heart's last crimson drop!
When, like the lightning from the dark earth loosed,
Springs up the exulting spirit, radiant
In its own glory; and the mangled clay
Joyfully quitting,—straightway to the stars
Shoots onward; there, in everlasting light,
Itself a star, to dwell!

“Then, if to die,
Welcome we death! But heaven may yet give life,
Yea victory: for if, as rumour speaks,
Aid be at hand,—upon the foe may we
Pour torrent-like, and sweep him from the plain:
If not, the very ruins of our wall

273

Will be a rampart hard to overclimb,
When men like us upon it take our stand,—
To die prepared, but resolute, till death,
No foot of ground to yield. If by my voice
Ye were directed, then, our bold reply
Should be at once, defiance to the last:
But, as the general will from mine dissents,—
The rumoured succours hoping; and delay
Esteeming, therefore, wiser,—I submit.
Two captains choose we, then; and to the Medes
Thus let them say, ‘Three days allow us yet
For thought, and for resolve: upon the fourth,
We will decide; and heaven protect the right!’”

So he, and all approved. But, when himself,
With young Nebaioth, by the general voice,
As messengers were chosen,—scornfully
He shook the head, refusing. With glad heart,
A stern defiance bearing, had he flown;
But, truce to crave, liked not.

Nebaioth, too,
The proffered honor, with cold look, declined.
He chose not, with a falsehood on his tongue,
Before his noble enemy to stand,
Time craving for maturer thought, when war
Already was resolved. To the lost king,
As sole resource now left, immediate flight
He still had counselled; and yet cherished hope
His words might not be vain.

Sennacherib,
And Michael, to the doubtful post, at length,
Sore pressed,—not willing,—with a herald went:
And, when before Arbaces and the chiefs,
In council brought,—low-voiced, reluctantly,
Their message told.

In silence, for awhile,
The whole assembly stood. His piercing eye,
Upon the messengers Arbaces fixed;
And, as he gazed, across his countenance stole
A darkness, like the thickening of the air
When thunder gathers. Round the assembly then

274

A glance he shot; and every face beheld,
Lowering, and discontent. The priest, alone,
With a proud bearing smiled, as he would say,
“I told you on what hollow reed you leaned:
Their eyes are blinded; and their doom is fixed:
'Gainst Fate all strife is vain.”

Then once again
Upon the Assyrian captains looked the Mede,
And sternly thus:

“Our generous intent,
With fraud is met. Not for maturer thought
Ye ask delay; but for some covert guile.
Succour, perchance, ye hope; or hope, by stealth,
Your sentenced king may 'scape. Now, dare ye stand,
With eyes uplift to heaven; and solemnly
Call on the gods to witness that your words
Hide not a falsehood?—Ye are motionless,
And have no answer. Brave men are ye both;
And all unfit to be the messengers
Of lying tongues. Your sad and downcast looks
More honor you than subtlest eloquence,
The false defending. But now, clear your brows,
And to my words give heed: for much imports,
To you, and us, that they be understood,
And known irrevocable.

“When ye come
Again in presence of the Assyrian lords,
Say, thus the Medes reply. ‘Your hollow words
We listen not; and by your shallow guile
Are not deceived. For thought, and for resolve,
Time ample have ye had; and have resolved;
Though on no honest course. Fit punishment
Were, now, our offered mercy to recall;
And force you to submission absolute
Beneath the conqueror's will. With every hour,
We mark the Tigris sinking to his bed;
And know that, ere to-morrow's sun shall set,
Your wall will be defenceless. Not less ye
This truth must know. Ye know, too, that your fate,—
Though we stood idle,—on the breath depends

275

Of the first waking wind. The ravenous flames,
Even in the stillness of this utter calm,
Ye cannot master: what if once again—
And tokens are not wanting, both on earth
And in the sky, portending its approach—
The hurricane should flap its awful wings
O'er your doomed city! think ye that, one day,
Before the flaming Fury it could stand?
What hope then have ye? and why, mad, or blind,
For sake of one great criminal, should ye
Your fate, already dark, make black as night?
But we have warned you: and, if ill the event,
Censure yourselves alone. Now, finally,
Hear our resolve. This one day will we grant,
This only, ere our mercy we retract,
And draw the avenging sword. Day's lightning-steeds
Now more than half way up heaven's arch have run:
Till they beneath the western hills shall sink,
Your answer will we wait. If, ere that time,
The terms propounded ye in full accept,—
Then shall the solemn oath, by you to us,
By us to you, be taken; and may heaven
Send lasting peace between us! But, if ye,
Fate-ruled, will still our offered grace refuse,—
Then, be that sunset as a clarion blast
Proclaiming war awaked. From that time forth,
Cast hope aside; and arm you to endure
The worst that may befall! But still we trust,
For you, and us, that wiser thoughts may rule.’

“Go now; and that which ye have heard, report
Unto your lords and captains. If our terms
In full they will accept,—then, with all speed,
Return unto us; lest, through more delay,
The flames should gather to resistless might,
And utterly consume you. But, if still
Our offer ye reject; and, reasonless,
Will on destruction rush,—then send, at least,
With what despatch ye may, your agëd men,
Your women, and your children, from the walls,
Lest also they should perish; for, be sure,

276

Not swifter follows thunder on the bolt,
Than, on the sinking of the flooded stream,
Shall follow our assault.”

Here ceased the Mede:
The Assyrian captains briefly made reply;
Then bowed, and took their way.

But when, anon,
Amid the rulers and the chiefs they stood,
And the full answer gave,—then wrath arose
In minds of many; and a stern resolve,
Rather the bitterest ills of fate to dare,
Than basely, in his last extreme of need,
Their king to death abandon. Faithfully
So stood they; willing life itself to lose,
The life to save of him who, recklessly,—
Had his imperious pleasure so impelled,—
Their blood had poured like water.

Once again,
As oft of late, Nebaioth urgently
Craved to the king admittance; for he hoped,
By fervour deep of prayer, at last to move
That obdurate heart, in pity for the woes
Of myriads, to bow down; and, by swift flight,
Himself and them to save.

But now the king
Access denied him; for, in black despair,
Clothed as in armour, to all things without,
Was he impassive. For Assyria, now,
For all the millions that still hailed him king,
No thought had he: he knew that hope was none;
That, with the falling of the flooded stream,
The human tide would enter; ne'er to ebb
Till ruin had whelmed all. One hideous thought
Alone possessed him,—death by his own hand!
With every passing hour was brought report
Of the fast-sinking river; and he knew
That, with the morrow, or the next day's dawn,
The final doom must come. Yet, though resolved
By death to end his woes, and disappoint
The vengeance of his enemies,—to life

277

Instinctively still clung he; to the last,
The fatal blow deferring.

Nor, as yet,
Of the unnumbered gates which to the realms
Of darkness lead the souls of wretched man,
Had he made choice: the poisoned cup, the sword,
The water offered rest: nay even, when raged
Fiercer the madness, in the very flames,
Exultingly thought he, the oppressive load
Of life to shake away,—so baffling quite
The malice of his foes, that even the bones
Of their once lord supreme,—their victim, last,
Should mock their blood-hound search.

Yet still, as sank
The wave of passion, that toward death's dark strand
Thus bore him onward,—back he shrank appalled,
As from a precipice; unnerved his hand,
His very soul aghast.

Like mournful ghost
Revisiting the mansion loved in life,—
Through that resplendent palace, all alone,
With downcast look he wandered; and in thought
Called up the glories, and the joys, all gone;
The fearful yet-to-come,—so nigh, so sure,
Its earthquake-step might almost seem to shake
The steadfast present.

For long, anxious hours,
Through the vast, brilliant chambers, gloomily
Thus roamed he; then, as if, by change of place,
Some ease from pain to find,—the lofty roof
With weary foot he climbed: yet, but to feel
New torture there; for, 'neath the unclouded sun,
Gorgeously shining, lo! the rebel camp,
In dread magnificence outspread below,
As with a lightning-flash his eye-balls seared.
A moment, with both palms his face he hid,
Heavily groaning: but his soul re-manned;
A deep breath drew; and once again looked forth.
Like marble was his cheek; his lip compressed;
His eye distent and gleaming.

278

'Twas the hour
Of burning noon; and all within the camp
Was motionless, and hushed. Beneath the shade
Of open tents, the countless myriads lay,
Peacefully resting. Leaning on his spear,
Or with slow foot, like one who walks in sleep,
Listlessly gliding,—here and there he saw
The unneeded sentinel. In long, close ranks,
Like unconsuming fire, the brazen cars
Gleamed to the sun. High o'er the meaner tents,
In midst of all, the vast pavilion rose
Of the dread rebel chief; and, close beside,
The mast-like staff, whence, idly fluttering now,
Drooped the gigantic banner; hated sign
Of black rebellion waked. He closed his eyes,
And shuddered.

But, when elsewhere he looked forth,
No comfort found he. On all sides arose
The devastating flames: and, last and worst,
Vision horrific! lo! the broken wall,
A huge, and ghastly breach! a yawning gulf!
Dire entrance to the everlasting tomb
Of all Assyria's glory!

Heart-sick, gazed
The miserable king; and longed for death,
To blot out all for ever! To the brink
Of that high roof he walked, and looked below.
“Here might I die,” he said; “here all forget!
One onward step; one resolute downward leap;
One moment's passage through the whizzing air;
And all would be a blank! What, then, to me
Would matter,—though Assyria, as myself,
Should fall, and perish! At the final hour,
Then hither will I come: and, when I mark
Destruction covering all, here will I die,
And disappoint my hated enemies!

“But this most glorious palace of the earth,
By their abominable revelries
Defiled shall never be: its sumless wealth
No rebel hand shall clutch. The seer foretold

279

Banquet, and flood, the earthquake, and the fire,
As the gods' scourges. Three have come to pass;
But, for the last, myself will be the god
To execute the doom. This gorgeous pile
The flames shall swallow; and my own right hand
Shall kindle the great fire. The vault beneath,
With every element of combustion quick,
Shall be surcharged. The palace of the world
Shall be extinguished, as a burnt-out torch:
And the detested rebel shall not glut
His wolfish eyes with even the very dust
That was Assyria's king. But, no delay:
The end draws nigh.—Thought must be action now.”

Strong in that dire resolve,—with rapid step,
Downward he went: before him called in haste
The astonished captain of the household guard;
And hurriedly thus spake.

“Jehabad, heed
What now I bid thee. See that it be done
Swiftly, and well; else, will the monarch's wrath
Fall heavy on thee. Summon instantly
Thy soldiers, every man. Throughout the vault
Beneath the palace, let them pile up wood,
As for a thousand watch-fires: and thereon
Be poured, in torrents, pitch, and bitumen,
Naphtha, or aught inflammable more,—that fire
Unquenchable may in a moment rise.

“The foe, to-morrow, or the next day's dawn,
Will enter at the breach. They look to feast
Within the radiant chambers of the king;
And revel in his spoils. Fools! let them come!

“But now no time for words. Away at once.
When all is ready,—see that thou appear
Again before the king; that his own eyes
May look upon the work; and that his hand
May deal the rich reward.” Jehabad bowed,
With knee upon the floor; then rose, and went.

A strength demoniac gathered in the soul
Of the great despot, as the fearful end
He thus resolved. The world itself in flames,

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To him had seemed but fitting funeral pyre
For the world's dying lord. A bitter laugh
Burst, ever and anon, as to and fro
With heavy foot he stalked; and his red eye
Flashed mockery, as round the gorgeous walls,
And on the priceless treasures, oft he glanced,
And triumphed o'er his baffled enemy.

Anon he called: the obedient lords appeared;
And thus he gave command.

“My sun goes down;
But shall set brightly. What to-morrow's eve
May bring, I know not: but to-day is mine;
And shall be joyous, though the jaws of death
Gape for me ere it close. Then, order take,
That in the chamber of the sun be spread
This night a banquet, such as may outshine
All former revel. Through the palace go:
And whatsoe'er is richest, and most rare,
That gather ye; and in the feasting hall,
On the spare tables, and the couches spread.
The golden, and the silver statues, place
Around the walls; and on the floor pile up
The treasure-chests, the vases, and the bowls,
The jewel caskets,—and whate'er beside,
Of rare and costly, may not elsewhere stand.

“But with my concubines alone I feast:
In all their beauty, their most bright attire,
Then bid them come; and let their hearts be glad.
To-morrow, haply, may they—but, enough:
Ye know my will. See it be all fulfilled.”

When thus the king had spoken,—and his lords
Submissively had bowed, and gone their way,—
Again he felt alone: his soul again
Bent underneath its load of wretchedness.
Upon a couch his burning frame he threw,
And longed for sleep,—ay, deep eternal sleep.

But not one instant came forgetfulness
To cool his burning brain; and, like to one
By fever racked, his restless limbs he tossed,
And rolled his blood-shot eyes. Thus passed the hours.

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At length the captain of the palace-guard,
So ordered, in his presence stood again,
Bowed low, and spake. “Dread lord! thy will is done;
The work is finished.”

With a sudden strength,
As at glad tidings brought, uprose the king;
And downward hurried: the vast vault explored:
And, as the sleeping elements of fire
Upheaped he saw; and knew that, at one touch,
Like a volcano wakened, all would burst
In flame unquenchable,—delirious joy
Shot through his soul. He felt that, at the last,
Himself should be the conqueror; and laughed out
A hollow, fiendish laugh. The vast, dark vault
From all its depths laughed back; as if with mirth
Of demons in derision. But, with scorn,
The thought he banished; and a lustrous gem,
The ransom of a noble, from his vest
Forth drawing, to the captain of the guard
Gave it, and thus; “Faithful, as brave, art thou:
Swiftly and well thy task hast thou performed;
And all dost merit. To thy soldiers, too,
Shall rich reward be given. But hasten now;
And place before the portal chosen men,
Who day and night shall keep a heedful watch,
That no man enter.”

Having said, he went;
And in his chamber waited restlessly
The hour of his last banquet: knowing not
That in the bottom of the cup lay Death!

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BOOK THE TWENTY-EIGHTH.

So fared the wretched king. But, in the camp,
To greater end the moments, big with fate
Of millions, had been passed. Since hour of noon,
Anxiously watchful, thousands had looked forth,
Hoping, ere sank the doom-suspending sun,
That, from the city issuing, they might see
The messengers of peace. But, girt with clouds,
Fire-edged and angry, the red orb went down;
And the last day of lingering mercy died!

Soon, in Arbaces' tent the captains met,
To hasty council summoned: and himself
The first thus spake. “No answer hath been sent:
The truce is o'er; and, by to-morrow's dawn,—
So swiftly ebbs the river,—we may storm,
Dry-shod, the breach. But, ye have marked the heavens,
The iron clouds, and heard the wailing wind;
And know that tempest threatens; yea with signs
Strange and portentous. If again should fall
The cataracts from heaven's ocean,—ere the morn,
Tigris again will rise, and bar the way:
And we still long must wait. The enemy
As yet expects us not; nor, haply, knows
How far hath ebbed the flood: for, by the breach,
No watch is stationed. At the set of sun,
Valiant and trusty men I sent,—the depth
To try; and carefully the ground explore,
For best, and surest entrance. Not one man

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Stood there to spy for enemy! To the knee,
Not deeper, did they wade: the ruins, then,
At two great gaps o'erclimbing,—openings clear
Right in the city saw they: nor, even there,
Found one to question them. I counsel, then,
That, with all safe despatch, this very night
Assault be made;—so may success be won,
The surest, soonest; and with least of loss
To us, and them, alike. If wise ye deem
This counsel,—then my farther thoughts at once
Will I expound; for all have I designed;
And time for act is short.”

The general voice
Loudly approved; and then again he spake.

“All night will be thick darkness: nor, till dawn,
Will rise even the worn moon. With prudent speed,
Let all prepare them, then, that, from the camp,
One hour ere midnight we may take our way.
The favoring breeze right from the city blows;
So, haply, may no sound of our approach
Reach the dull watchers' ears: yet, cautiously,
Slowly, and silently, must all move on:
And this the order be of our attack.

“Archers, and spearmen, two score thousand strong,
Shall at both gaps assault: but all the rest,—
Chariots, and horse, and foot,—in separate bands,
Before each northern gate must take their place;
And, silent, wait the event. The breach once passed,
The soldiers then, in firm array, right on,
Stopping for nought, must speed; and every gate
That fronts the camp fling open. Let the horse
First enter. Through the Nisroch gate who pass,
Or gate of Palms,—must toward the palace haste;
And hem it round, that no one thence may 'scape.
The infantry, quick following them, its gates
Must burst, or overclimb; and from his den
Drag forth the tyrant. Meantime, through the squares,
And the chief streets, shall cars and horse move on,
To check advancing foes. The despot slain,
Or captured, brief resistance will be made,

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And mercy sued for. Haply, so, may peace,
Even on the morrow, this dire contest end.

“Throughout the camp, then, unto every man,
Be these things well made known; confusion, else,
May come upon us, and discomfiture,
Or heavy loss. And, furthermore, to all
Thus be it ordered. ‘Till the word shall come,
Let not a soldier, tempted howsoe'er,
For plunder rove: since, separate from the rest,
Might many be cut off. Let no man strike
The unarmed, or unresisting; for such deed
Shame would bring on us. Lastly, let all heed
That none upon a woman lay the hand
Of violence; for such shall surely die.’

“Now, with all temperate haste, unto our tasks
Let us go forth: and may the mighty gods
Give to our labors victory, and peace!”

He ended: all were glad, and went their way:
And soon throughout the camp was heard the hum
Of cautious preparation; man to man
In low tone speaking; the dull clink of arms
Hastily donned; the tread of horses' feet;
The gentle roll of chariots, in array
Warily ordered: and, at length, the tramp,
Stealthy, and slow, of all that mighty host,
'Mid darkness marching on.

As day's great lamp
Beneath the western hills in pomp went down,—
On him no more to rise,—Assyria's king,
To the resplendent chamber of the sun,
For his last banquet went. Already placed
Each on her lustrous seat, in richest robes
Dazzling to look upon, the concubines
His coming waited. Like a summer's dew
In the first sunbeam, costliest gems, and pearls,
Hung thick upon them. Round the spacious hall
Up-piled, might seem the treasures of a world.
The air was perfume. Music exquisite,—

285

Faint as in noontide dreams of tender maid,
Sick with first love,—in distance rose, and fell.
All that could palate, eye, ear, fancy, charm,
Was there abundant: all save that pure joy,
That sunshine of the heart, in which alone
Lives happiness. A hundred women, young
And beautiful; of all the ransacked East,
The choicest flowers, arose as he went in.

In his most gorgeous robes attired,—with gems
Glittering like sun-sparks on a bubbling spring,—
The monarch entered; and, with blandest word
And smile, to all gave greeting.

But that smile
Strange was, and fearful: each her breath drew quick
Each to the other looked, and then again
Upon the king; and inwardly all said,
“Distempered is his brain; his look is gaunt
As if shrunk up with age!”

Yet, with forced glee,
From one to the other went the unconscious king,
And spake the words of gladness. But his voice
Was hollow as the echo in a vault;
His eyes shone torch-like; from his touch came fire:
And, when fond words he whispered in the ear,
Like hot steam from a caldron seemed his breath.

Aghast all looked upon him, as on thing,
Not of this world: and each, as he drew near,
Trembled, and would have fled.

But, at the feast,
At length, they sat; and joyously, and loud,
From bands unseen, the stirring music pealed.

Deeply the monarch drank; and with gay tones,
Still feigned high merriment. But, as the sun,
Through the hoar mist of Arctic region, shoots
On icy pinnacle his slanting beam,
Powerless to thaw,—so vainly strove his mirth,
The frost of grief and fear which bound each heart,
In joy to melt. At times, a pallid face
In answer strove to smile; 'twas like the glance
Of moonlight on a marble sepulchre:

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A forced, and feeble laugh, at times, replied;
It seemed a mirth-dressed sob.

The night drew on:
With choicest fruits, and flowers, and nectarous wines,
The tables now were spread. The attendants all
Had been dismissed; and with his concubines
Alone the king remained. Then called he out
For louder, gladder music; and stood up,
Inviting to the dance.

Obedient rose
The beauteous victims; but their languid limbs
Heavily moved, as if of life half 'reft;
Their looks were mournful, as of those who weep
Above the just-closed grave.

“Ho! cease the dance!
Cease music, cease!” exclaimed the angry king,
On the floor harshly stamping. “What means this?
What cloud is it hangs o'er you, shedding night,
Where should be summer's day-beam? Ye are owls,
Who should be nightingales; or, rather, larks,
Singing as up they go to meet the day;
For your day is at hand. To-morrow's sun
Shall witness the deliverance of you all.
From out the gates shall ye ride joyously;
Each bearing gold, and gems, the dower of queen.
Amid yon rebel camp, with open arms
Will ye be welcomed; and the proudest there,
Will bend the knee, and sue to be your slaves,
Your wedded slaves. Behold these chests of gold,
These jewel-caskets,—each a mine of wealth!
All, all are yours. To-morrow, at high noon,
Gather together here, and take your fill.
To me they now are nothing; spare them not;
For, if not yours, a spoil will they become
To the vile rebel. Then away with care,
And let your eyes be bright. Take each a cup,
A brimming cup of soul-delighting wine:
Let mirth and jocund dance so fire our hearts,
That, to the end of time, it may be said,
Assyria's merriest revel was his last.”

They heard, astonished; and, with brightening looks,

287

Quaffed each the nectarous draught; for every heart
Throbbed wildly with gay hope; and love for him,
The despot king, felt none. Of happy homes
Fondly they thought; and many a soft eye gleamed
With tears of sudden joy. In virgin youth,
From parents, brethren, sisters,—and the land
That gave them birth, had some been torn away;
From loving, broken-hearted husbands, some.
The tyrant's will no human tie could bind:
Report of beauty heard,—he had sent forth
Command to seize it: and none dared resist!

Filled now with hope of feeedom,—every face
Beamed sunshine; and the heavy limb grew light,
As it might tread on air.

The tyrant marked
That sudden brightening; and his heart was wroth.
They joyed to leave him then! him! earth's dread lord!
They, the poor slaves, to whom his lightest look
Had been a law; whose lives were on his breath;
They joyed to leave him!

In his maddening brain
Then first awoke a diabolic thought!
Like gleam from hell, on his black soul it came;
Glared hideously,—and went: too soon, alas!
Fiercer to come again! A strange, dark smile
Gloomed o'er his face; yet horror chilled his blood:
He started, as from some terrific dream;
Hastily took again the guise of mirth;
And mingled in the dance; called out, anon,
For merrier music; quaffed the frequent cup;
And thought he laughed at fate.

Thus sped the hours.
All in the palace marvelled, when they heard,
Far on in night, those sounds of revelry;
Knowing the period of the truce was o'er;
And that the foe, like couchant lion, watched
The moment for his spring. The very morn
So soon to follow on that reckless night,
Might see, perchance, the shielding flood withdrawn;
The human deluge pouring through the breach.

But none there dreamed that, even then, the plain

288

Trembled beneath the tread of armëd hosts,
The hot steed's trample, and the chariot-wheel.

Even they who on the battlement kept guard,
Heard not their coming; for the gathering wind,
Right from the city toward the hostile camp
Swept strongly,—bringing on its wings the moan
Of fires wide scattered, and the din confused
Of those who toiled to quench them; but all sounds
Upon the plain beneath, bore far away.
So, nought suspecting, in the dreamy mood
Of wearied men who watch, they walked and mused.
And when, at length, some broad and heavy drops,
Wide scattered, heralding a storm, 'gan fall,—
Their hope was, that the flood again might rise,
And baffle still the foe. Thus, dreading nought
Of present danger, each man, as he might,
From wind and rain sought shelter.

But, at length,
When the deep thunder in the distance spake;
And on the far horizon gleamed the fires
Of hotly warring lightnings; and 'gan fall,
With quicker, broader, heavier, harder plash,
The strong, large rain,—then, here and there, looked forth
A solitary watcher, inly glad
At thought of havoc that dire-threatening storm
Might bring upon the enemy. But lo!
Sun-bright beneath the lightnings, the plain burned
With hosts of mail-clad men; chariots and horse,
Moving together on!

A moment gleamed
That sight of dread; then all again was dark,
Formless, and soundless. Had it been a dream,
Or sense-illusion? Haply so thought some.
But no: the alarm was given: out came the blast
Of warning trumpets; peal on peal they rang;
From point to point, through all the city flew
The dread alarum.

Starting from their sleep,
Upsprang the myriads; some, in haste to arm;
Some, wild with terror, shrieking; some, to hide

289

Their wives, their children, or their little wealth;
Some bent on flight; some to their gods in prayer
Hastily falling down; but all amazed,
Confused, and terror-struck.

Yet still was doubt
Among the watchers on the battlement;
For few had seen; and, when the rest sped forth
To look upon the field,—in such dense cloud
Drove the slant rain that, though the heavens again
Brightly were kindled, scarce an arrow-flight
Could keenest vision pierce. Amazed, confused,
They shrank, and to their shelter fled again;
Sure that no foe, against that angry heaven
Could dare contend.

But, 'mid the storm's dread howl,
Fearful though faint, anon the blast was heard
Of hostile trumpet sounding the assault.

When first the Medes,—along the river's bank
Advancing toward the breach,—the alarum heard
Upon the battlement; and knew the foe
Was roused, and arming; and when, like a stream
From precipice launched, against them dashed the rain,
And in their eyes the ceaseless lightnings gleamed,—
Staggered were they, bewildered; and stood still,
Bending the head; ashamed to turn the back;
Not daring to go on; expecting all
The signal to retire.

But not so dreamed
Their god-like leader, ever in the van
Of danger eminent; and daring most,
When most the peril. As the trumpet's clang,
And shaking banner, the young war-horse stirs,—
So the hoarse thunder, and the fiery bolts,
His strong soul lifted. Backward looking now,—
For at their head, beside the guides, he walked,—
Dismay he saw among his troops, and doubt,—
Fatal confusion threatening. Starting forth,
Toward them he hasted; and, from line to line,
Along the flank advancing, sent his voice,
Loud as a lion's roar at dead of night,

290

Far borne upon the wind, and rousing up,
As with new wine, their hearts: “On, on, brave men
Your home is now the city, not the camp.
God is our captain! His great gonfalons,
The lightnings, lead us on to victory!”

With words like these, from rank to rank he went,
And poured into them fire. A trumpet then,
From one who stood beside him, he snatched up;
And his own mighty breath into the brass
Drove storm-like; sounding signal of assault,
Rapid and fierce, till the strong metal rang
As it would shiver. With a joyous shout
The host gave answer; and moved boldly on;
Bending against the tempest; and resolved
On conquest, or on death.

Yet still spake out,
From time to time the trumpets; on, still on,
Urging assault: and still along the line
The voice of their great captain was sent forth,
Their hearts to strengthen: for, with gathering rage,
The tempest howled and yelled: against its might,
Scarce could the strongest move; and oft they swerved,
And staggered, as they walked. Like corn full ripe
Beneath the wind, whole masses to and fro
Reeled heavily: yet still on, on, they went,
Forcing their arduous way. The vault of heaven
Seemed as one thunder-cloud. Lightning, and rain,
Dashed into mist, ran battling on the ground.
Dazzled, confused, amazed, yet resolute still,
Thus on they toiled, slowly and painfully:
But when, at length, the foremost gained the breach,
Behold! the enemy, in numbers thick
As bees around the hive about to swarm,
Gathered to bar their entrance!

Yet, at once,
No moment pausing,—such their chief's command,—
Began the fierce assault. The archers, first,
Their huge bows bent, and in a cloud let fly
Death-threatening shafts. Alas! by rain relaxed,
The strengthless sinews failed: mail-piercing bolts

291

Became as toys; and, midway toward the foe,
Dropped harmless. Backward went the archer bands,
Useless, abashed: and, in their place, advanced
A host of spearmen. Through both gaps at once,
Led by the guides, the iron columns strove
To force the dangerous way. Up clambering thick,
Above the rock-like ruins of the wall,
Pressed myriads onward: but, at every point,
Like hornets issuing to defend their nest,
Sprang up the foe; nor way was made at all.
No lack of light; for scarce an instant slept
The thunderer's bolts: and when, a moment, fell
Black darkness,—they but paused, and drew hard breath;
Then leaped to fight anew.

But, from the pass
Where hottest raged the strife, the Medes, at length,
Backward were driv'n; for there the choicest men,
And bravest captains of the Assyrians stood.
Yet still the Median spearmen to assault
Fiercely returned; bore onward for a space,
And still again retired; for, in the front
Of battle, furious as a tiger, raged
The madman Zimri; to full strength restored,
From that dread blow of his great enemy,
Arbaces, in the midnight conflict dealt;
Which him to shades of death well nigh had sent;
And which to avenge, or perish, now he longed;
Hoping, in stress of battle, once again
To meet his hated foe.

That senseless wish
Fate granted; for, as sunshine fires the cloud,
Turning the dark to ruby and to gold,
So, on the hearts of the now wavering Medes,—
Again forced backward,—rose the glorious voice
Of their great leader, as, all bright in arms,
Flame-like beneath the lightnings,—at their head
Suddenly came he; and, with clarion tone,
Cheered them to victory.

The great golden shield
Blazing before him; in his strong right hand

292

The gleaming battle-axe—Jove's thunderbolt
Scarce swifter, deadlier—right upon the foe,
Maugre the bristling spears and flashing swords,—
As, on a numerous herd, a lion springs,
So, singly, on went he.

At that dread sight,
That voice appalling—even o'er hurricane
And thunder heard—well might the bravest fear,
And feel his strength to fail: but Zimri knew
Nor fear, nor reason; for, with hate and rage,
His brain was like a fire. At one wild bound
Upon the Mede he sprang; one blow let fall;
Then sank, disparted! for the griding axe
Cut through the shield, and shore in twain the neck,
As a sharp scythe the thistle.

One brief glance
Upon the quivering face Arbaces cast;
From his axe-handle plucked the riven shield,
And onward hasted. Terror-stricken now,
The Assyrians turned, and through the rugged way
Fled headlong. He, pursuing, past the wall
In open space arrived. But, as a bark
Amid the breakers shooting, where the sea,
And some disgorging river, hotly clash,—
At prow, and stern, and either side, at once,
Meets the fierce war of waves,—so, 'mid the throng
Of enemies pouring on, the invincible Mede
Soon on all sides was hemmed.

By rage and fear
Driven frantic; daring, from excess of dread;
As feeble sparrows at the hawk will peck,
Hovering too nigh their nest,—upon him sprang
A crowd who, man to man, had fled from him,
As deer before the lion. But the sweep
Of his tremendous axe, clear room soon made;
And on he moved, as if, to all that host,
Singly, the equal: onward still went he;
Nor looked behind, to mark if on his track
Followed the spearmen; for he deemed the hand

293

Of heaven itself was with him; and the shield
Of God put forth to guard him.

But his course,
Check sharp and fearful met; for, hissing fell,
Even at his feet, a sun-bright thunderstone,
Rending the earth, and scattering in his face
A sulphurous dust. A peal that shook the ground
Burst with it; and came then a darkness thick,
An utter blackness. On his cheek he felt
The hot breath of the lightning; and his sight
Seemed blasted. “I am stricken blind!” he said:
“O'er proud of heart I was; and the just gods
Fitly have punished! To a worthier hand
Be their great work committed! Oh forgive,
Dread Powers unknown; for weak and vain is man,
Erring and ignorant, ever! My last breath
I give unto your praise: and may my blood,
Now to be shed, cleanse mine iniquities!”

Down to his knees he sank; then, on his face
Fell prostrate; and in silence waited death.

The sky again was kindled: and, behold!
Joy to Assyrian eyes, their dreaded foe
Stretched on the earth, as dead! The bolt, they deemed,
Had smitten him: and all who near him stood,—
Hoping the king's reward,—with headlong haste
Rushed on to seize him. Still in speechless prayer,
With eyes fast closed he lay; around him felt
The human torrent pouring,—eager hands
Everywhere clutching him,—outrageous cries,
As of a clamoring army, round him heard;
And marvelled that as yet they smote him not.
Thus wondering, by mere instinct ope'd his eyes;
And lo! the light, the blessed light again
Shining as ever on them! Had he dreamed
Of blindness? or, in mercy, had the gods,
By act miraculous, and for great ends,
Restored the sight they had taken? Like the glance
Of sun on rising wave, across his mind

294

Shot the bright thought.

As, at the touch of flame,
The nitrous dust, cold, black, and motionless,
Starts up, a spirit of fire,—with strength intense,
Rending, and hurling,—so, by that great hope,
To more than mortal might enkindled, sprang
Suddenly up the Mede.

As on his rock
Above the clouds, the eagle, through the storm
Upsoaring, in clear sunshine lights at last;
And from his strong wings in a shower shakes off
The glittering rain-drops:—or, as from the wheel,
Rapidly whirling, in a cloud is driven
The crushed and scattered dust,—even so, his foes,—
With fury as of flame, and might that laughed
Their strength to scorn,—far off Arbaces flung.

Strange terror seized them then: a god, they deemed,
His form had taken; and, aghast, they fled.
Yet numbers, who that more than mortal might,
For distance, had not seen, still crowded on;
Thrusting aside the timid,—all athirst
Their enemy's blood to shed.

But, lifted now
Beyond all former daring; every nerve
Charged as by lightning; every sinew strong
As tempered steel; and confident that heaven
Its champion had appointed him,—right on
The heroic Mede advanced. Against the wind,
As slowly, firmly, moves the thunder-cloud,—
So, 'gainst the tempest of his enemies,
Dreadless, and irresistible, bore he.

Behind him close, his spearmen tracked his steps,—
A broad, dense column of protruding steel;
A living, moving wall. But, in their front,
Courage regaining, thronged the enemy,—
From all parts pouring on to check their way;
And, wanting their great captain, ill had fared
The Median spearmen then. He, rising still
In power, and daring, as the peril more,
And difficulty gathered,—like a god

295

Mixing in mortal battle, might have seemed;—
So terrible his aspect; such his deeds;
Surpassing human.

As, in burning waste
Of Afric,—when the numerous caravan
Toils slowly on, and the worn travellers drink,
In fancy, of the cool delicious spring,—
Darkening, and reddening, the thick atmosphere,
Like cloud of smouldering flame, 'gins wrap them in:
No sound is heard, no breath of air is felt;
In speechless terror all the portents mark;
And the tired camel casts a wistful eye,
Feeling a peril;—if in distance, then,
The Red Plague of the desert is descried,—
The Fiery Column, with an eagle's speed
Careering, charged with death,—aghast with fear,
Face to the earth, the panting travellers fall:
The camels drop; and in the burning sand,
By instinct lessoned, deep their nostrils hide;
And, trembling, every living thing lies mute,—
Even with such terror, at the dread approach
Of their dire Battle-Plague, the Assyrians shrank;
And on, still on, toward nearest northern gate,
Unchecked he held his way.

From west to east,
From north to south, through all the city rose
Wild cries and wailings. Hastily equipped,
From every quarter poured the soldiers on,—
Roused by the trumpets; but unordered all,
Unknowing where the foe. The stony streets
Rang loudly to the clatter of the steeds,
And chariots' thunder. Voice, to lifted voice,
Replied, and asked again. Some here, some there,
Reported the assault. By lightning, now,
Dazzled to blindness; now, in thickest night
Shut up, as in a vault,—slow way they made;
And terror, and amazement mastered all!

296

BOOK THE TWENTY-NINTH.

While thus, as in her mortal agony,
Raged the distracted city,—in the hall
Of the imperial palace was the sound
Of revelry; the jocund dancer's foot;
The clear gay laugh; the voice of hopeful heart,
Expectant of the morrow. The loud choir
Of mirth-inspiring music, ceasing not,
Shut out the trumpet's larum, and the din
Of battle's gathering tempest.

With a face
Heated by wine, and madman's merriment,
A ruby goblet in his burning hand,—
The king, upon his silken couch reclined,
Some graceful feat was lauding, when, uncalled,
With corpse-like aspect, at the door appeared
A trembling slave. The monarch on him cast
An eye of wrath: yet fled not the scared man;
But, with clasped hands, and look of agony,
Some tale of terror mutely seemed to tell,—
Fearful to speak, or enter. At the sign,
Eagerly on he came; and, at the feet
Of the astonished king down falling, said;
“Dread lord of lords! forgive the words I speak.
The enemy hath entered at the breach,
And rageth in the city.”

Deadly pale,
The king arose, but spake not. To the door
He pointed; and the shivering slave was gone.

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A few brief moments, on the cheerful groups
Linked in the dance, a strange, dark look he cast;
Then, with slow step, went forth. The demon-thought
Again had waked within him. Like a brand
Of burning iron on the quivering flesh,
So on his brain it wrought. The golden key
Within the wards he turned; that no one thence
Might issue, no intruder pass within;
Then, by the marble stairs, with firm, swift foot,
Resolved and strong, descended.

Like a mist
Before the breeze, passed off the fumes of wine;
For, now, distinctly on his ear arose
The blare of trumpets, and the din of hosts
In mortal combat. Buckling on a sword,
To the open court he hastened; looked around,
And listened. Borne along the changeful blast,
The sounds of battle, now, seemed far away;
Now, at the palace gates loud thundering.

Silent, and motionless, awhile he stood,
Noting the sudden storm, the angry sky,
With never ceasing lightnings all ablaze,—
And wished heaven's thousand flood-gates would break loose,
And 'neath the deluge whelm his enemies:
“Yea, though with them fell I, and all my host;
And every stone of Nineveh should roll
Like pebble in the torrent!”

Thus, at length,
Outspake he; and, with swift and furious step,
To and fro hurried. But, as came again
The uproar of the battle, swelling now
As though within the court itself had raged
The mortal struggle,—suddenly he paused;
Laid hand upon his sword, and ready stood,
Assault expecting. But, again borne off,
The tumult died away; and then once more,
Shaping in words his bitter thoughts, he spake.
“What may this mean? The flood not yet hath fallen;

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Or they who brought report have lied to me.
Traitors, then have we? Said they not, ‘Once more
Must rise, and set, the sun, ere foot of foe
Can touch the ground?’—But yet, what matters it
If now, or two days hence, the evil come.
The fall of the great city is decreed;
By gods, or Fate, or demons, is decreed;
And nought can stay it; nought in earth, or heaven,
One day retard it. Wherefore covet, then,
A few hours more of lingering wretchedness!
I am, in truth, awearied of this life;
And rather would at once leap down the gulf,
Than longer stand and tremble on its brink.

“Ah! could I but drag down with me yon host
Of rebels curs'd! I hear you, foul-mouthed, base!
Dogs! adders! vermin! crawling, noxious things!
Worms that gnaw bravely the dead lion's heart!
I hear, and loathe you! Ay, ye vaunt aloud,
In pride of victory o'er the king of kings,
As though your strength, and not the Fates' decree,
Had overthrown him. Nay, erelong, no doubt,
Ye trust to see the monarch of the world,
For a few years of miserable life,
A suppliant at your feet! Ye fondly hope
To riot in his gorgeous palaces;
To deck your vile clay in his royal robes,
And in the sunshine of his priceless gems.
Haply, within your hearts ye also say,
‘Shall we not revel with his beauteous dames?
Shall we not drink the nectar of their lips?
Shall we not take them for our concubines,
And of the king make mirth and mockery?’
Slaves thrice accursed! ay, even this ye hope!
But he shall balk you still.—Infatuate fool!
Didst thou not promise them, that, with the morn,
They should go forth in freedom; gems, and gold,
The dowry of a queen, each bearing off?
Didst thou not tell them, ‘In the rebel camp,
The greatest will be proud to sue to you,
And pray you be their wives?’ I marked you then,

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False wretches! I beheld your sparkling eyes,
Your sudden brightening! From your falling lord
Glad were ye all to fly; and in the arms
Of damnëd rebels try your blandishments!
But I will stay your sport: ye still are mine;
Still shall be while I live: and, when I die,
Ye also to the air shall render up
Your fair, false beauty! Double vengeance thus,
On you, alike, and on the hated foe,
At once I wreak! Ay, wanton traitresses!
Together will we perish! The same torch
That lights my funeral pile, shall kindle yours!

“Rage on, accursëd rebels! At these gates
Your proud foot shall be stayed. Here come ye not,
Or come as victims. Meantime, till the flames
Envelop all, the revel will I hold.
Ha, ha; throughout all nations, and all times,
This feast shall be renowned!”

Unconsciously,
Thus to his thoughts, and passions turbulent,
Clear voice he gave; with gesture vehement,
And rapid foot, still walking to and fro.

Alone, and unobserved, he deemed himself:
But, drawing near, one man upon him now
Bent his stern eye; one ear his every word
Well marked, as, with a fiendish cruelty,
Again his dark soul spake. “Ay, every one!
The youngest and the fairest, all shall die!
A steam of sacrifice shall reach heaven's gates,
Such as the nostrils of blood-loving gods
Ne'er yet have scented! such as well may fit
The hour, when sinks the empire of the world,
And dies earth's greatest king! Though perish then
My mortal body,—yet, throughout all times,
And every land, my great renown shall live!
But they, too, perish with me: all, all die!”

He started; for, behind him, his mad words
Strangely were echoed. A deep voice returned,
“Yea, king; all, all shall die!”

Surprised, and wroth,

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Backward he looked; and, like a statue fixed,
Beheld the hated Barak. A drawn sword
Supported his gaunt hand: his face was pale,
And passionless as stone. A dark, grim smile
Illumed the despot's face. “Ha! wizard—here?
What think'st thou? Is the fated hour now come?
Shall the proud Mede this night his iron rule
Fix o'er the eternal city? or, even yet,
Will the gods strike, and wither him?”

“Yea, king!”
With calm, stern tone the prophet answered him:
“The hour is come; my hour; and thine the next!
The Mede already in the sacred walls
Hath poured his myriads. Hearken to the din!
Hear'st not the bray of arms, the victor's cries,
Each moment nearer. Surely will this night
Behold the glory of Assyria fallen!
Thy reign, O king! is passed. Another head
Thy crown must wear. There is no hope in man,
Or gods to save us! 'Tis the gods' decree.

“Like a strong river swollen by wintry rains,
Roaring and foaming through rock-narrowed banks,—
So, through the streets rolls now the torrent foe!
I saw them come: I knew the fated end:
I sped to warn thee; and myself to die.
As yet, they enter at the breach alone;
Erelong, at every gate will they pour in.
Hast thou resolved, O king! on life, or death?
And how to live, or how to meet thine end?”

Not as a subject to a dreaded lord,
But as the greater spirit to the less,
With lofty look, and tone severe he spake.

The imperious temper of the king was chafed.
Long had he loathed, yet secretly had feared,
That strange dark man: but treble hatred now
Fired him to frenzy. He, the paltry priest,
Had dared to beard him: with a master's tone
Audacious, schooled the monarch of the world,
Even as a boy! But still was he the king!

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Though falling, still the king; and, to the last,
Would live the lord of all; the life of man
Still at his pleasure hold,—to take, or leave,
As fancy moved him: and, though now he stood
As on the very outskirt of the world,
Scenting the realms of darkness and of death,
Yet one last act of kingly dominance
Should cheer his parting soul.

But, cunningly,
Smoothing his brow, and with a quiet tone
His fury masking, thus he made reply.
“Priest, said'st thou not, thy fate with mine is linked,
Thy end, ere mine, an hour?”

“I said it, king;”
Calmly the guile-suspecting seer replied;
“'Tis written in the scroll of things to come;
'Tis the decree of Fate.”

“Thou liest,—'tis mine,
I bid thee die!” shrieked the king, springing on.

A madman's strength was in his vengeful arm;
A tiger's fierceness in his sudden leap:
But, in the instant, from his hard-clenched hand,
Loud clanging flew the sword: for, lightning-swift,
With giant strength, the priest his own huge blade
Dashed 'gainst the falling steel,—and, far away,
Rapidly whirling as it cleft the air,
Jangling and whizzing, sent it.

The harsh clang
Benumbed the murderous arm, that, for a time,
Strengthless it dropped. A strange astonishment
So held the king, that not a word he spake,
Nor moved a limb; but, with wild, wondering eye,
Followed the glittering weapon on its flight:
Then, as he saw it fall, laughed loud, and long,
A wild hysteric laugh. His very brain
Seemed as it felt the jar; so purposeless,
So lost his look; as though, with madman's rage,
Were idiot's weakness mingled.

A stern look,

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Calm, but contemptuous, on him threw the priest.
“Fool to the last!” he said; “A life all vain;
Hateful to all; now hateful to thyself;
For the dread world unknown, thou soon must quit;
Yet, ere thy dying breath be quite gone out,
Would'st snatch at mine! Why? gilded gewgaw! why?—
Because thy tinsel pomp ne'er bowed my soul
To worship at thy feet. A very god
Thou'st deemed thyself; and millions, better far,
Hast spit upon, and trampled in the dust,
Till they, too, hailed thee as a deity.
A god?—Nay, Monster!—man, goat, tiger, mixed!
Yet, being what thou art, the Powers supreme
Have placed thee on the highest throne of earth,
Their will to execute,—not thine, poor slave!

“Ere the foundation of the earth was laid,
Of all the doom was fixed. This monstrous realm
In its due time arose; a mighty man,
By Fate ordained to found it: at due time,
Was fixed its fall: and thou, weak, sensual thing,
The sorry instrument! Thy follies, crimes,
Thy tyranny, thy avarice, thy lust,
Made thee the agent fit to rouse the hearts
And hands of nations 'gainst her iron rule;
And drag her to destruction. For this end
Wert thou created; to this end hast wrought.
Thy work is finished: thou, the unconscious tool,
Done with, art cast aside, to bleed, drown, burn,
Or rot; then mix with other human clay,—
A beggar's, or a slave's, no matter which,
Since equal all to thine. Yet thou'rt a god!
Hast felt thyself a god: been hymned as god;
Worshipped by prostrate hosts. I worshipped not!
Think'st thou for reverence of thy paltry state,
I served, obeyed thee? No, I mocked at that;
I smiled at thee; or, when I smiled not, loathed.
'Twas as the tool, though base one, of the gods,
Or Fate, more strong than gods, that I beheld,
And served thee. Why, in that terrific night,

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When round thee was thy host all perishing;
When thou thyself, fear-stricken, to the ground
Shrank cowering, and the Irresistible
Was hasting to the death-stroke,—wherefore then
Came I to save thee? Thinkest thou for love,
Or reverence? No! thy work not yet was done;
Thy hour not come; and I was sent to save.

“And what thy gratitude? my recompense?
Twice hast thou striven to slay me! Generous king!
Yet, if by thy hand, or my own, I die,
What matters it, so fate be but fulfilled!
Think not, in baffling thy most kingly thirst
For murder,—that I valued life, or hoped,
Or dreamed, of years to come: I crave them not;
Well knowing that the all-disposing Fates
This night, this hour, demand the life they gave.

“Hark! murderer! to yon more than thunder-peal
Of human tempest! Wide are flung the gates;
The living ocean pours its billows in!
Fallen is great Nineveh! Eternal night
Is gathering round her: and thy greater far
Is now Assyria's lord. Hark! more and more
The uproar heightens; nearer draws the storm.
Sardanapalus, now no more a king,
Wilt thou to some base soldier yield thy breath?
Or wilt thou solely thine own victor be,
And fall as I shall fall? The hour is come:
Thy life is asked. Poor puppet! once a king!
See how a man can die!”

He turned away;
Looked up to heaven; then, with clasped hands, and voice
Solemn and deep, thus spake:

“O'erruling gods!
Or Fates, whate'er ye be, to man unknown,
I bow to you: I yield to your decree!—
Earth, sky, air, water; birds, and beasts, and man;
Green trees, and mountain-tops; lone wilderness;
Sun, moon; and ye, great mysteries of heaven,

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The bright and countless stars,—farewell! farewell!
To me ye are no more! The universe,
To me, is blotted out; and all is nought!”

He ceased: one long, rapt, melancholy look
On heaven, and earth, cast round: deliberately
Upon the ground his sword hilt fixed; the point
Against his heart, with hand unwavering, placed;
One moment paused; one word inaudible breathed;
Then forward fell, transpierced!

No sound was heard.
He spake not; groaned not; struggled not,—but died:
As though his iron will, in death, as life,
Held mastery yet.

More loud and steady now
Arose the din of battle; for the wind,
Like a strong man by sudden palsy struck,
At once had fallën; and its utmost strength
Was but as infant's sob. The rain had ceased;
Thunder was hushed; and o'er the firmament
Strange darkness 'gan to steal.

The unwonted signs,—
Omens and prodigies, to calmer men,—
Passed all unnoted. Even the heightening roar
Of conflict drawing nigh, the king marked not,—
In such astonishment upon the corpse,
Close at his feet, he gazed. His blood, that boiled,
Now cold within him ran: his maddened brain,
As by the touch of a magician's wand,
To sober changed. Deep rapt, and silent, long
He stood, and looked: then thus, at length, broke forth.
“O, man inscrutable! what art thou now?
What was this essence, Life, that gave thee thought,
Loftier than that of conqueror, or of king?
Strength of the lion; resolution fixed
As law of Fate: and, having vanished, leaves
A carcase merely, on which dogs may prey;
Slaves trample; vultures, flies, or worms, may feast?

“Is this clod thee? thee, Barak, the dark priest?
Or art thou on the winds careering now?
Or, viewless, plunging through the earth, or sea?

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Or, far above, in the deep heart of heaven,
Amid the stars, or in the burning sun,
Mingling with gods and heroes of long past?
Or in dark Hades, wandering mournfully?
Hadst thou, in my place, held Assyria's throne,
Still proudly had it stood, immoveable:
Thine iron arm, indomitable soul,
Had crushed rebellion, even at its birth.
But what avails? 'Tis done; the ruin wrought;
Assyria is no more: and I, like thee,
Must plunge into the dark, for heaven, or hell!

“But who is this, with look of fiery haste?
Surely the foe hath not already—Ha!
Nebaioth? wherefore here? I have forbid
Intrusion on me. Get thee hence.”

“Dread lord!
Oh hear me, hear me!” dropping on his knees,
Cried out the noble youth: “the enemy
Have entered at the breach; flung wide the gates,
And this way hurry on! For thee they cry:
Like famished wolves they thirst to drink thy blood!
Oh! ere it be too late, fling off those robes!
Quickly a dark and mean disguise put on:
And, 'mid this wild confusion, even yet,
From some far distant gate thou may escape.
Resistance soon must end. Our soldiers now
Strive feebly. Thousands fling their arms away;
And either run, or yield. Oh! fly, then, fly!”

“Enough,” the monarch cried; “now get thee hence.
The king, be sure, will 'scape. A stratagem
Of rare device is laid; and cannot fail.
When ye shall see this palace of the earth
Mounting in flames to heaven,—then may ye know
The king hath baffled all his enemies:
Strive then no more in useless fight, but yield;
Or, if ye may, 'scape also. Now, away.—
Yet, ere thou leave the palace, give command
That every serving-woman, man, and slave,
And every soldier, through some southern door,
Make speed to quit it. Hastily seek then

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The warders of each gate; them bid remain:
And, when the foe shall strike upon the door,
Entrance demanding,—let them, first, three times
Sound on the trumpet, as for life they blew;
Three times make pause, as if on parley bent;
Then fling back bolt and bar; the gates throw wide,
And bid them in. Fear not: the king shall 'scape.
Brave youth! farewell!” That said, he turned, and went.

Nebaioth, from his knees, much marvelling, rose,
Much fearing, for, so strange the monarch's look;
His voice so strange, that, though he saw and heard,
Scarce could he know them his. Yet now no time
For wonder, or delay: the king's behest
Must be obeyed.

That done, he issued forth;
And where, with maddest fury, Jerimoth,
And all the choicest of Assyria's host,
Resisted still, plunged headlong in the fight.

Dire the confusion! By the lurid gleam
Of flames that, through the thickening atmosphere,
Scarce served to show the enemy,—front to front,
And hand to hand, the desperate battle raged.

Meantime, Sardanapalus to the hall,
The sun-bright hall of revelry and mirth,
With slow step took his way. The calmer mood
Still for the moment ruled him; and he paused,
Remorseful for the deed he had resolved.

Long at the door he stood; and heard within
Mirth-stirring music; the gay dancer's tread;
And laughter of light hearts: for nought knew they
Of the stormed city, and the slaughter dire,
Flooding her streets. No hideous dream was theirs
Of the dark sleeping horrors 'neath their feet;
Waiting the touch of fire, to burst at once,
A dread volcano of unquenchable flame!
Of freedom were their thoughts; of home, loved home,
The home of infancy, of blooming youth;

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Of parents, brethren, sisters, youthful friends,
All soon, so soon to be beheld again.

The jealous king knew not their innocent joy,—
Sensual, and vain, and false, misdeeming them,
And eager in new arms love's joys to taste.
Then blackness gathered o'er his countenance;
Again his heart was stone!

Long, to and fro,
He walked, and hearkened: with a cautious hand,
Silently turned, at length, the golden key;
Ope'd stealthily the door. Unseen himself,
He saw the joyous bounding of the limb,
The clear, bright face, all sunshine with young hope;
Listened the tone of gladness, and the word
Of cheerful heart, foretasting liberty.

In his fierce soul thronged fellest demons now.
“Accursed crew!” he muttered; ground his teeth;
Rolled his large blood-shot eyes, and clenched his hands;
“This, then, your love is; your eternal love;
Your gratitude, your worship! One there was
Who loved, who would have loved me to the end;
But, in my fury, I insulted, wronged,
Spurned her; and she is gone! gone to my foe!
Azubah, to the death hadst thou been mine,
Had the fiend slumbered in this mortal hell,
This mad, black breast! But all is over now!
Sensual, imperious, and intractable,
My life hath been; my headstrong will the law
Of countless millions: mine have been their life,
Their blood, their minds, their bodies, as I would,
To deal upon them. Then, as I have lived,
So will I die; still master over all!

“Beautiful falsehoods! Ah, ye think to move,
With your voluptuous kisses, the stern hearts
Of the red-handed conquerors. Your arms
Round them ye hope to twine; and in their ears
Whisper soft blandishments: to tell the tale,
How the king loved you; how caressed; how toyed;
What burning kisses showered—faugh! hell, and death!
Yet, all the while, ye loved him not: oh no!

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Gave kiss for kiss in fear,—but not in love;
Never for love! he was not to your choice:
Not such as he your hearts could ever win.

“Then, in your cunning, would ye picture forth
The man whom ye indeed could love, adore,
Live for, yea die for: and the silly dolt
Caressing you, would in your picture see
Himself, his dear-loved self! Then both would join
In fiercer rapture; and your mockery still
Would be the king; the poor deluded king!
How he would look; what say; what madness act,
If from the grave, alive he might come forth,
And look upon your dalliance! Ah! false fools!
So think you; ay, I read it in your eyes;
Your springing limbs; I hear it in your voice.
But the king yet shall mar your wantonness:
Shall give you lovers who, with hot embrace,
Hotter than your desires, shall wrap you round;
Yet shall not mock him!”

A harsh trumpet-blast,
Quivering, and long drawn out, broke short his words.
“Ha! come already? Then the end draws nigh!
Once more would I have led the merry dance,
The death-dance, with yon beauteous hypocrites:
Nay, yet I will. Ha! what great revelry!
What a wild whirl! what frenzy of delight,
That dance immortal!”

Even while he spake,
Gently the door he closed; the golden key
Turned gently; and with soft, but rapid tread,
Descended to the vault.

Awaiting there,
The guards he found; through nearest southern gate,
Bade them for life to fly; a blazing torch
Seized eagerly; the door flung wide; strode in;
And, hoarsely laughing as again the blare
Of the terrible trumpet rang,—beneath the pile
Thrust the bright bickering flame.

Scarce swifter speeds
The arrow from the bow, than, from the torch,

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Through all the vast extent of that grim vault,
Like a roused demon, the combustion ran;
And the thick tomb-like darkness instantly
To furnace-light was changed!

Backward he drew;
One moment on the fiery lake looked round;
One moment trembled at the deed he had done;
At that he still must do; then, hurriedly,
Went forth: behind him, with a careful hand,
The strong door locked, as though from every eye
He would the act conceal; and rapidly,
But staggering, like to one with brain oppressed,
Mounted the marble stairs.

The third loud clang
Of the warning trumpet sounded, as he stood
Before the door of that dread banquet hall,
Listening the sounds of gentle mirth within,
While underneath the palace was a hell
Of fire intense, fast hasting all to draw
Within its hideous jaws.

“Ha, ha!” he cried,
With ghastly mockery; “ye come in time:
Right welcome, friends: warm greeting shall ye have.
Enter; and doff your mail; and take your seats:
Quick servants shall attend you; and no fear
Of cold formalities. But I would see
My noble guests; for, when we meet again,
Or where, is doubtful.” With a hurried foot,
While thus deriding, to a balcony
That overlooked the court, he took his way.

The strong and gorgeous northern gate, from which,
Gazed at and worshipped, he in all his pomp
So oft had ridden forth,—now, while he looked,
Expanded to admit his conquerors.
And who were they? Arbaces? or the king
Of Araby; or the dark soldier-priest,
With all their captains, and their men of war?
No: springing forward, like a hungry wolf
That scents his prey, Rabsaris, all alone,
Bounded within the court. A gleaming sword

310

Was in his hand; the shield upon his arm.
Wildly he looked around; then cried, “Come forth;
Tyrant! goat! ravisher! Where art thou hid?
Come forth; and die at least as man should die,
Nobly in equal fight. Come forth; or soon,
Like hunted vermin, wilt thou meanly fall,
Worried by all the pack. I hear them now,
Close at the gate. Ha! curses on their speed!
They rob me of my prey!”

As thus he spake,—
Like torrent issuing from an opened sluice,
Rushed in the court a stream of armed men,
Maddened with victory; thirsting to pour out
The despot's blood. With wild haste, here and there,
And to and fro they ran; still calling loud,
“Bring forth the tyrant! bring the murderer!
Where hides he! bring him forth.”

While these, confused
And noisy, vainly toiled,—with secret step,
Rabsaris sought at every well known door,
Hoping for entrance: but, like rock stood all,
Impregnable: nor saw he, any man,
Of whom to question.

While he paused, came sound,
Not of the battle. Like the roar of waves
Far off, it seemed; but swelling, deepening, soon,
To voice more near and terrible. Long in doubt,
With breath suspended, beating heart, he stood,
Fixed as a statue. But, at length, assured
Of the dire mischief, at his utmost speed
Backward he ran,—still crying, “To the gate!
Back to the gate! back! back!”

His voice, and look
Of direful meaning, forced obedience prompt:
And soon, close crowded by the gate, all stood,
Waiting the issue.

To the captains then,
Who gathered round, with voice of mystery,
And face aghast, he spake. “Oh friends! beware!
A stratagem most deep and damnable

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Is laid to snare us; and retire we must,
Or perish every man. Hark! Hear ye not?
A burning gulf awaits to swallow us!
The king hath fled; and every living thing
Hath fled the palace! Enter, and ye die!
Like the waves boiling on a distant beach,
Within the subterranean vault I heard
The savage growling of the pent-up fire,
Crouching to spring. Wait patiently awhile,
And ye will see the damnable intent
Of the fell despot.”

Even while he spake,
And while upon the palace every eye,
Through the fast thickening, blackening atmosphere,
Intently gazed; and every ear was quick
To catch the outburst,—on the pavement rang
A sound as of an iron-headed dart,
Hurled strongly. Many heard; but marked it not;
For, at the lower windows, 'gan to gleam,
Like flashes on the horizon seen at night,
The first dim outbreak of the prisoned fire.

But a faint cry, and then a heavy fall,
Aroused them; and behold! upon the ground
A soldier smitten; and with vain attempt,
Struggling to rise,—a hailstone at his feet,
Large as a man's closed hand!

Astonishment,
And terror held them mute. Such thing, 'till then,
Had no man seen, or heard of. But again
An outcry, and a fall. Rabsaris, now,
Himself was stricken: but his brazen helm,
On which the ice-bolt fell, and glanced aside,
From fatal harm preserved him. He arose,
Though dizzy, and confused; and toward the sky,
Awe-struck, looked upward, as of heaven to ask
The mystery of its will.

A harsh, wild laugh,
As 'twere the answer of a demon, rang
Above them through the court. All started; looked.
At that same moment, a broad lightning sheet,

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Blazing and quivering long, lit up the sky:
And lo! upon a lofty balcony,
Distinct as if in sunshine; glittering bright
In all his rich array of jewelled robes,—
Assyria's wretched king! From him came still
That wild, unearthly laugh: and louder pealed,
As, now, from out the lower windows burst,—
With hideous pantings, as of some huge beast,—
Billows of smoke; and lapping tongues of flame,
Impatient for their prey.

A cry of fear
And horror from the gazing soldiers broke:
And him, whose life but now they burned to take,
At peril of their own, they now would save.
Forward they ran: with their collected might
Thrust at the doors: again; and yet again:
Each called aloud on the other; each his strength
To the height put forth: again! again! again!

But not more vain against the solid wall
Had been their battery: and each moment now,
With gathering fury, roared and leaped the flames.
They yielded, in despair; and, falling back,
Looked upward for the king. But he was gone:
Mad, laughing, glorying o'er his baffled foes,
Gone to the dance of death!

In silent awe,
The captains and the soldiers stood and looked;
Nor, when they saw that, at the northern gate,
Led by Nebaioth and Sennacherib,
Poured in a numerous band, all hot for fight,
For vengeance clamoring,—'gainst them turned one man;
On that tremendous spectacle all thoughts,
All feelings so were fixed.

Still up, and up,
Brighter, and broader, louder, and more loud,
Roaring and cracking, clomb the terrible flames,
From end to end of that stupendous pile,
At every lower window, streaming far
And fiercely, as by furnace-blast impelled,
Rushed out the Fury.

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Still were some, who said
That, even then, amid the din they heard
Sounds of strange revelry; sackbut, and harp,
Clear-ringing cymbals, and the psaltery,
As at a dance: yet others heard it not,
And deemed it fancy.

But, at length, a sound,—
Heard clearly and by all,—stopped breath, and heart,
And stiffened them as stone! It cut the ear
Like a sharp iron entering! 'Twas a shriek,
Piercing, shrill, horrible! Woman's wild shriek,
In the death-agony!—A moment more,
And all was silenced; an appalling crash
Made the ground tremble: and the fiend of fire,
From the higher windows now, with tenfold rage,
As mad with victory, shook his flaming flags!

Stopping their ears, all fled. They knew at once
The dreadful truth; yet feared again to hear
That shriek horrific! Hurriedly they fled.
Thronging the gate, Mede and Assyrian mixed,
They crowded out; and no man thought of strife:
Horror had quenched all enmity. The cause,
The great prime cause of war, was now no more!
All felt, though no man spake it.

But when, soon,
In shadow of the lofty wall they came,
Where the red flame-light reached them not, behold!
Thick darkness was before them; darkness thick
As in a grave; “darkness that might be felt!”

They saw it, and drew back; afraid to walk
Within its terrors. But, in little while,
The eye, accustomed to the blackness, caught
From the air above, fire-tinged, a dismal gleam,
As of a dying ember in the dark,—
And, like to blind men on a path unknown,
With spear in hand, or sword, they felt their way,
Fearfully groping. Whitherward they went,
They knew not; nor aught cared, so but a roof
Might shelter them: for, ever and anon,
Heard, but not seen, a fearful hailstone smote,

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With stroke as of a hammer, on the ground:
And still, at times, a cry or groan arose,
Of one down smitten,—haply to the death!

So on they went—a supernatural awe
Freezing their blood, as when, at dead of night,
A spirit passes. And, when once again
In open space they came, and full in view
Of the great conflagration;—though so nigh,
That, like the hot breath from a furnace-mouth,
It scorched their flesh,—yet, through the thick, dark air,
As but a dull red storm-cloud it appeared,
Seen after sunset, when the Wintry Night,
In his black armour clad, from the eastern sky,
With Tempest at his back, comes lowering up.

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BOOK THE THIRTIETH.

But, in the thronged, and roaring streets, meantime,
Direful had been the conflict. By the glare
Of numerous fires, had Death his grim work done:
But, chiefly, in the square of Jupiter,
Fit battle-field for thousands, raged the strife.
Fiercer than tigers fighting for their young,
Assyria's bravest captains, foot by foot,
Drew back, yet scorned to yield. With rage as hot,
The Medes pressed on them.

But their mightiest foe,
Arbaces, in mid battle sheathed his sword:
For pity moved him that, in hopeless cause,
One valiant man should fall. With lifted voice,
Clear as a clarion, urgently and oft,
Upon the hostile leaders did he call,—
Imploring them to yield. Not more in vain
Might the tossed seaman bid the waves be still.
They knew all lost: they knew the stern decree,
Death to the king denouncing; and with him,
Resolute stood to die,—but, dying, slay.

Nought knew they of the palace then in flames:
A broader, redder light, for brief time glowed;
But that they heeded not: the fatal hail,
In solitary bolts, shot here and there;
But that they saw not; where so many fell,
None marked the weapon.

But, by swift degrees,

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The air 'gan thicken: the red glow of fires
Was blotted out: a midnight darkness, soon,
Shut out their foes. Thicker, and thicker still,
It gathered round them; pressed upon their flesh,
Like a wrapped mantle. No man his own hand
Uplifted, now could see. Perforce all stood,
Astonished, motionless: nor sound was heard,
Save, soft and muffled,—as of chariot wheels
Amid deep snow,—the roar and crack of fires.

But, in that hush, erelong, like stroke of spear,
Or brazen dart, at lessening intervals,
Upon their armour rang the hailstone's blow.
At every stroke, a smothered cry was heard,
A struggle, and a fall. As fell each bolt,
Above them in the air a sound was heard,
As of an arrow-cloud; yet no man guessed
Whence came the invisible mischief.

But, erelong,
The fearful truth all knew. Like thunder-drops,
Singly descending, first, and wide apart,
But, speedily, in cataracts, out-poured,—
Came down at length, in torrent-flood, the hail.
Wild cries from thousands rose; yet, such the din,
No man his own uplifted voice could hear.
As though upon a myriad anvils clanged
A myriad ponderous hammers,—on the roofs,
The stony pavement, and the armour, rang
So loud the awful hail.

Beneath their shields
The soldiers cowered: yet even the strongest fell.
The Median archers, in light armour fenced,
And shieldless, all had perished 'neath the weight
Of that dread battery, but that, far behind,
Nigh to the breach, for closer fight unfit,—
Thus ordered,—they had stayed, and refuge found.

Of the Assyrians also, the unarmed,
Or lightly fended, at the first dread frown
Of that strange darkness, all had shelter sought
So life preserved; for even the helmed head

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Was smitten to the death; the battered shield
Driven with the strong man flat upon the ground:
Rider, and mail-clad horse, reeled to and fro,
Then sank together. Whomso smote the hail,
Sorely it wounded, even if death he 'scaped.

And, haply, all on whom its fury fell
At length had perished, but that, as it came,
Even so the Terror passed. First harbinger
Of change at hand,—midst of both armies fell
A thunderbolt, that, in a thousand streams
Of dazzling fire, amid the hailstones flashed;
Then left a thicker darkness. Who stood nigh,
Were blinded by the glare; and many slain:
But, through that Stygian night, to the eye remote,
Even the sky-kindling bolt of Jupiter,
Seemed but as torch's glimmer. With the shaft,
Came the deep peal on peal; but thick, and hoarse,
As by the black air muffled. Still again
The lightning smote; again the thunder spake;
Again, and yet again; each bolt more bright,
Each thunder-roll more loud and terrible.
Like a retreating lion, the dread hail
Its fury stayed, and surlily drew off.
The slumbering wind awakened; and the pall
Of solid blackness, slowly 'gan to move.

The ice-strewed ground now flamed and glittered bright
To the incessant lightnings. Then was seen
The wreck of that dire tempest: steeds, and men,
Stretched numerous on the earth; some, stiff in death;
Some, wounded, and yet struggling to arise;
Helms sorely battered; lighter shields burst through;
The strongest beaten in, as by the blow
Of ponderous stones.

Awhile, o'er both hosts hung
A stupor, like to that of shipwrecked men
Just rescued from the waves, and doubtful yet
If dreaming, or awake. But still, as passed
The blackness off, more bright and red appeared

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The glow of fires around, and from above,—
As from a furnace roof reflected down,—
More loud and fearful was their roaring heard.

As, at the early morn, the growing light,
And sounds without, from his deep slumber stir
The dreamer, till his senses all are roused,—
So, from their waking dream, the din and glare
Of conflagration, and the sights of woe,
And havoc, moved at length the astonished hosts.
Foe looked on foe, yet not an arm was stirred:
Wrath was extinguished; or the might of man,
The pomp, and noise, and fury of his war,
So poor appeared, when heaven's artillery
But just had ceased. The very hand of God
Seemed to have hung in anger over them!
To have hurled direct that supernatural hail,
And shot the fiery bolts! His threatening voice
Had spoken thunder; and his frown of wrath
Sent down thick darkness! So both hosts awhile,
Mute and unmoving stood.

At length, alone,
His shield, sword, spear, and battle-axe laid down;
His head unhelmed, his hands in friendly guise
Extended toward his foes,—Arbaces walked,
And stood before them. Silent, for a time,
And motionless, he stood: with calm tone then,—
Not as a victor, but as one who sues
For but strict justice, equal unto all,—
Thus spake. “Ah! wherefore should we longer strive
In wasteful battle! Glory is it none,
To tread out life: the form divine of man,
Of living, breathing, feeling, thinking man,
To change into a clod, a loathsome clod,
More vile than common clay! Could we create
From the dull earth, one living, sentient thing,
Though humblest far of all that breathe and move,—
That were indeed true glory. To destroy,
Is but the act of the unreasoning brute,
Urged by a blind, fierce instinct: to preserve,
Is attribute of deity. And, see,—

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If still ye think of war and glory joined,—
How pitiful the boasted might of man;
His sword, spear, helmet, shield, and armour bright;
His war-horse, and his chariot! There they lie,
The strong, and weak, alike! Who smote them down?
What more than mortal warrior, in the pomp
And splendor of the battle; with an arm
Strong as of banded giants; clothed in mail
Brilliant as sunshine, hard as adamant;
His eye of lightning, thunder his dread voice,—
Who strewed the ground with dead? Alack! alack!
The hailstone, that scarce hurts the butterfly,
A little larger moulded, crushes man;
Strong, valiant, boastful, glory-loving man!
Such, through the simplest means, the power of God!

“Herein may we not read the will of heaven
That our poor war should end? Oh! be it so!
Hard strife hath made us victors; and the terms
Of peace ye know. Plain justice must be done:
No more we ask, though powerful all to take.
Then answer me; and let this night be peace,
Firm peace betwixt us; now, and evermore.”

He paused; and turned his eye from chief to chief,
Expectant of reply. Awhile none spake.
At length, before the rest stepped Jerimoth;
And, with drooped head, and reverential look,
Like one before some higher nature bowed,
Sadly thus spake. “Arbaces, thy great soul
More than thy valour conquers. For myself,
Death, rather than dishonor, would I meet:
And, with but ten resolvëd men, would stand
In arms to oppose, if still thy stern award
To the last link of our long chain of kings
Be ruthless as at first. But I have looked
From face to face among my boldest friends,
And all are vanquished. Let me then depart,
That mine eyes see not that which must be done;
Lest madness seize me, and I do a deed
To shame myself, and all!”

While thus he spake,

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Voices in lamentation loud were heard,
From distance coming: and Nebaioth soon,
Sennacherib, and many valiant chiefs,
By wailing thousands followed, toward them walked.

With head upon the breast, face horror-struck,
Advancing from the rest, the leaders came,
And 'twixt the hosts stood silent. For a time,
None questioned them: so did a secret awe
Of some enormous evil freeze their blood.

At length Arbaces thus: “Nebaioth, speak:
We ask for peace: thy message, if aright
Thy looks I read, more eloquently far
Than subtlest tongue of orator, will move
Your hearts to give it. The great cause of strife
Hath been removed: Assyria's king hath fallen:
Bravely, at last, in battle hath he fallen:
Haply so best; for him; perchance for all!
Answer Nebaioth; have I read aright!”

Dropping his spear and shield upon the ground,
Nebaioth covered with both hands his face,
Bowed down his head, and wept. “Alas! alas!”
Burst forth at length; “the king indeed hath fallen!
Yet not in battle: fearfully hath fallen!
Boldly, but madly fallen! With him, too,—
Horror on horror!—have his beauteous dames,
His harmless minstrels, perished! His own hand
The palace fired! The music of the dance
Mixed with the death-shriek! All is lost! all! all!
Assyria is no more!” By grief convulsed,
Again he bowed; with both hands hid his face;
And wept out bitterly. As some loved friend
He mourned for, even Arbaces drooped the head,
And heaved the heart-wrung sigh.

But Jerimoth,
The first recovering, silence broke at length.
Standing before the Mede, from his own head
The helm he took, the sword from off his loins,
And placed them on the earth: then, at the feet
Of his great adversary kneeling, said,
And loud that all might hear; “Arbaces, thou

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Thy last and fellest foe hast overcome.
Thine arm in fight was terrible; thy soul
In peace is mightier far: 'gainst that I warred,
To this I bow. Assyria's king hath fallen;
But still Assyria lives; and gloriously
Yet long shall live; for, surely, on thy head
The gods will place her crown; to thy just hands,
Her sceptre will they give. Then, as the last
In arms to oppose, the first be I to bend,
And hail thee king.

“Brethren in arms,” he cried,
Uprising to his feet, and with strong voice
The Assyrian chiefs addressing, “War is o'er!
The gods, all-wise, all-powerful, have decreed
The fall of this great city: to our foes,—
But foes no longer,—have resistless might
Given to subdue us: nay, with their own hands,
Have sped our downfall: deluge, earthquake, fire,
Have sent against us: and our king, the last,
With madness smitten, that his own life, he,
With his own hand hath taken! Vanquished thus,
What common foe would not exult, and scoff,
And grind us to the earth; and, of our men,
Make slaves; and, of our women, concubines;
And, of our city, lairs for beasts of prey!
But our great victor, godlike in his might,
And his high soul, doth, even at the last,
Ask peace, when, with a word, he might let loose
Utter destruction! Strongest to o'ercome,
The strongest he to save; and this great realm
In glory yet uphold. Cry, then, so loud,
That the great voice may reach the heaven-throned gods,
‘Long live Arbaces! king of kings, long live!’”

His ardent tone and look, in every heart
Like fervor waked: as with one voice, cried out
The Assyrian chiefs, “Long live Arbaces, king!
King of Assyria; king of kings, long live!”

The soldiers from their leaders caught the word,
And onward sent it. Peal on peal it rose:

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From street to street, from wall to wall, it ran
Throughout the fated city.

Yet the Medes,
Nigh to Arbaces, joined not in the cry;
For he his hand uplift, admonishing.
But, when the Assyrian leaders now were still;
And when, in token of allegiance, all
Had bared the head, and bent upon the knee,
Thus briefly spake he to them.

“Rise, my friends,—
That posture to the gods.—Arise, arise.
Yet not the less I thank you; thank you most
That blood shall cease to flow.

“But now no time,
Even with consent of all who have the voice,
For dealing crown and sceptre. To a day
More calm, and greater leisure, be it left.
Action demands us now; and every hand
Must labor at the work; for fiercely rage
Fires numerous through the city; and best aid
May be too late to quench them. Let the chiefs
Of every country gather instantly
Their soldiers round them; and, in ordered bands,
Toil unrelaxing. Neither day, nor night,
Must there be pause. Meantime, that all may know,
Let heralds of each nation go with speed
Throughout the city; and make full proclaim,
That war is ended; and that every man,
In every man, must henceforth hail a friend.”

Three days, two nights, the labor was pursued:
For food, or rest, was intermission scant.
The out-worn briefly slept, while toiled the strong;
Then rose, and took their place; while those, for sleep,
An hour perchance, retired; and woke again,
Again in vain to toil: for still the flames,
In one part quenched, as if with doubled rage
Striving for mastery, in another burst;
Roaring triumphant; and their myriad flags

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Shaking in mockery.

Throughout all that time,
With eyes that never closed, from place to place,—
As chief directing, now,—with his own hand
Now, as a peasant toiling;—warning, now,—
And, now, encouraging,—Arbaces went;
And with him victory. But the flames, subdued
Before him, still behind him burst anew;
Nor, save a flood from heaven, might aught avail
To stop the fiery plague. Like brethren, strove
The soldiers, and the chiefs, so lately foes,
Each, in bold act and vigour, to outdo
His daring comrade.

One man only, stood
Inactive, unapproving,—the dark priest
Belesis. He, the hand direct of heaven
Beheld, the solemn doom accomplishing
Of that proud city: and but smiled, in scorn
Of man's poor hope to stay it.

To the camp,
The women, children, all the sick, the aged,
The feeble,—on the first day had been sent:
The treasures also, gold, and precious stones,
And costly merchandise,—a sumless store,—
Had been borne forth: and, as the fires increased,
With utter ruin threatening,—household goods,
Apparel for the wealthy, and the poor;
Oxen, and sheep, and goats; corn, oil, and wine,
A twelvemonth's full provision; priestly robes,
Ashres, and cherubim; the altars rich;
The images, in silver and in gold;—
All which the hand of man might bear away,
Had to the camp been taken.

The third night,
Arbaces to the mound of Ninus climbed;
That over all the city he might look,
And mark if much the Fury had been stayed;
Or if all hope were vain.

Descending quick,
A hurried council with the chiefs at hand

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He called, and briefly thus.

“Alas! my friends,
Our toil is lost! the gods assist us not!
The lowering clouds, three days did promise rain;
The winds all slumbered; and no idle hope
Upheld us, that heaven's fountains once again
Might open, and give forth a second flood,
To stay this burning: but, since set the sun,
Hath come a perilous change! In one dense mass,
The cloud-sea hath moved off, and left clear sky,
And flashing starlight: token that the winds
In earnest have awakened. Not as yet
Their breath is felt below: but, on the mound
Of Ninus, the high branches give a sound
Of wailing; and along the horizon's marge,
Rugged, and black, the storm-clouds lift their heads.
Not surer follows light upon the sun,
Than on such signs the tempest. 'Mid these fires
Whomso the blast shall find,—him will it leave
Graved there; or whirl in ashes on its wings.
Labor then useless, danger imminent,
I urge that all, through nearest gates, should speed
To leave the city; every living thing;
From man, unto the lowest that draws breath.
Should the relenting gods their purpose change;
Hold back the winds, and let heaven's flood-gates loose,
We still shall be at hand; still prompt to act;
And stronger for brief rest.”

The outworn chiefs
With voice unanimous his words approved;
And hastily dispersed. From wall to wall,
Throughout the city, trumpets quickly spake
The appointed signal: and, like flooded streams,
Through every gate the affrighted myriads ran.

Safe distance gained at length, the multitudes,
Panting and trembling, stopped, and turned to gaze.

As yet was calm portentous: man on man,
Looked awe-struck, silent, marvelling what should come.
Straight upward from the city rose the flames;
Thick wreaths of smoke, like a huge blood-stained pall,

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Above them heavily hanging.

But not long
Endured that stillness,—the tornado's crouch,
Before its deadly spring. In the western sky
A dark cloud rose; and every instant waxed
Huger, and blacker. As within it fought
Legions of fiery fiends,—anon it gleamed
With inward lightnings, dense as arrow-showers
In mortal battle. Nearer as it drew,—
Thick as the snaky hairs on Gorgon's head,
On every side out leaped the forkëd flames;
Some spent in air; some in the heart of earth
Plunging to kindred fires. Yet still stirred not
One breath of wind; the flames still upward soared.
But well the signs were known; and to the earth
Fell down the multitudes: so best to abide
The coming of the Terror.

A loud blare
Of thunder's trumpet told its coming on:
And, in a moment,—as, from prow to stern,
A great wave sweeps the ship,—o'er all the plain,—
Crushing the thunder 'neath its avalanche roar,—
At once the enormous hurricane-billow swept.

So hard it struck that, like one monstrous torch,
The darkened city might have seemed blown out.
But, like an active wrestler, after fall,
Upspringing to his feet,—again the flames
Leaped up to battle. Staggering they appeared
Beneath the onset. Back they sank, and rose,
And sank, and rose again: but fiercer still
With every instant waxing. Not such roar
Goes up from storm-lashed ocean, 'gainst the rocks
Shattered to mist, as from that fiery lake,
Writhing and racked by the mad hurricane.

On all sides round the city, myriads lay,
Panting, and trembling: for, from every gate,—
The nighest chosen still,—had crowds poured forth.

But they who on the eastern plain reclined,
Not long remained; for, streaming on the blast,
Came choking smoke in clouds; huge flakes of fire;

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And scorching heat, as from an oven's mouth,
That headlong drove them, at their swiftest speed,
Trembling, and terrified, and screaming loud,
To 'scape the torturing plague. Yet many fell,
Blown prostrate,—or by fear unnerved and faint;
And in that agony had perished there,
But that the wind, with sudden fitfulness,
Like wild beast on new prey, sprang to and fro;
Now south; now east; north now; and now again
From westward roaring. With each rapid change,
They on whom turned the Fury, shrieking flew:
Oxen ran bellowing; maddened steeds broke loose;
And dogs fled howling.

Settling, at the last,
Their discord,—as if leagued how best to bring
Swiftest destruction,—in one awful whirl
The winds combined; and round the city tore,
As they would rend it piecemeal; or, as hell
The demons had let loose, earth's fire to urge
To her own ardor.

Temple, pinnacle,
Tower, battlement,—whatever highest stood,—
At once was overthrown. Descending then,
Whole streets the blast laid prostrate.

The huge pile
Of Ninus,—which, for thrice five hundred years,
Unharmed had stood, as though defying Time
To lay his rebel-hand on its great state,—
Proud, and erect, yet held its regal front;
Though, by the whirlwind, and the storm of fire,
All else within the girding walls had sunk,—
But felt, at last, its doom. The century-beat
Of the Time-cycle's mighty pendulum,—
Measuring the dates of empires and of worlds,—
Swept by, and boomed its knell. Shuddering at heart,—
Like some o'erbeetling cliff, on ocean's marge,
Thousands of years by billows undermined,
And worn by storms,—it bent its giant knees;
Bowed its great head; and, death-struck, in a heap
Sank down together!

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As though mad with joy
At that great overthrow,—its viewless arms,
Terrific in their strength, the whirlwind stretched;
And,—over all the city lifting up
The burning ruins,—in one monstrous wheel,
High in the air upbore them. Ponderous stones,
Red-hot; huge blazing timbers, tall as masts,—
In that tremendous vortex, even like straws
On eddying wind were tossed,—like brilliant motes
In sunbeam, fiercely battled: now aloft,
A clear red burning,—now, in waves of smoke,
And fiery driftings, like the dust of hell,
All swallowed up, and lost.

The walls alone,
Those Titan walls, deemed lasting as the hills,
Yet stood; the banks of that terrific lake,
Lashed into fire-foam. But their hour was come.
The death-shriek of the whirlwind rose at last;
Strongest in dying. As from the huge throat
Of torn volcano in its agony,
Resounded the dire roaring.

That dread voice
Called up the awaiting Earthquake. He arose
In his deep regions; and the plains and hills
With a sharp tremor shook; for well they knew
His terrible footstep. Gathering up his strength,
He stretched his vast, far-reaching arms, and shook
The solid earth, as winds the deep sea shake,
In long, slow-rolling waves.

The enormous walls,
Like a fast-sinking ship, rocked heavily;
Writhing, and twisting, as they knew the hand
Of death had struck them. Like a riven scroll,
From summit to foundation-stone they gaped,
A hundred hideous fissures. Still they stood;
The ruin of a moment, yet so firm
In their vast bulk, that ages long had lived
The ghastly grandeur yet,—but that again
The Earthquake shook; and lo! from north to south,—
Like some gigantic billow, eagle-swift,

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Running aslant in thunder and in foam
Along the howling beach,—the eastern wall,
Through all its length rolled inward. To the clouds
Upflew the fiery spray. The surging ground,—
Tossing the burning lake, as it went on,
In waves of fiercer flame,—the western wall,
All that yet stood, next lifted, and cast down.

As though with havoc satiate, rested then
The dread Earthshaker. But his task not yet
Was all accomplished: still, to south, and north,
As in defiance of his power, stood fixed
The cliff-like barriers: he but summoned up,
For the great final overthrow his might.

By buried thunder heralded, it came.
As he would burst the globe's strong ceiling in,
And to the eye of day the depths disclose
Of the dread realms beneath,—the Demon shook,
And heaved, and smote the ground. No moment stood
Before that shock the walls. Sheer down they went,
With headlong plunge; as if, in mad despair,
To hasten their own doom.

The work was done.
The fitful whirlwind, like a bird of prey
Full gorged, soared upwards, bearing on its wings
Dense smoke, and clouds of fire. Far off it flew,
Angrily murmuring; and in distance died.
The earth no more was shaken: save the voice
Of the great conflagration, all was still.

When, far as eye could pierce, the millions looked,—
No stone upon another seemed to stand!
Where, in the pride of power, and boundless pomp,
Long ages had been throned the Eastern Queen,
Raged now a sea of flame unquenchable!

Awe-struck, and sad, the gathered nations gazed;
Then, as one soul had ruled them, turned aside,
Bent down the head, and wept. The crown of earth,
Her glory, and her sunshine, seemed at once
Shattered, and quenched; the brightest star of heaven
Darkened, and fallën!

As through forest vast,
The plaintive moaning of the wintry wind,

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Pervading far and wide, through midnight sounds,—
So, from that countless multitude, the voice
Of wailing, and of lamentation deep,
Rose on the stirless air.

One man alone,
Erect, exulting, on the ruin gazed,—
The priest Belesis; for, accomplished now,
The visions and the prophecies of years
He saw before him. On the arm he touched
The sorrowing Mede; and, with an eye of fire,
And countenance of triumph glowing bright,
Pointed, and proudly smiled. Arbaces looked,
Yet breathed no word; but shook the head, and wept.

Throughout the night was heard the voice of woe:
None to his fellows, save in whisper, spake:
None from his place removed.

Day dawned at length;
And then, like mourners who long time have bent
O'er the dark grave, and bid the last farewell,
To needful tasks they went.

Nine days and nights,
Streamed up the flames; and still the downcast hosts
Lingered to watch, and weep. But, on the morn
Of the tenth day,—toward Babylon, new seat
Of Eastern power, the human sea 'gan flow.

On the broad summits of the southern hills,
At eve the nations camped; still full in view
Of that great burning. But the flames no more
Their hands triumphant lifted. One vast sheet,
As 'twere a lake of molten iron, lay,
Voiceless, and motionless; with glare intense,
Dyeing eve's sober raiment!

At deep night,
Heaven's flood-gates wide were opened; and came down
Heavy, incessant rain. Down, down, straight down
As sinking plummet's line,—the broad, close drops
Unceasingly came down.

Day rose; but dark
As Polar twilight: still was heard no sound,
Save the great boiling of the ponderous flood.

330

Noon came,—a deep eclipse! yet stirred no man.
Eve passed: and night—a pitchy blackness—fell;
Yet still down, down, the unremitting rain
Poured in thick torrents down!

Another dawn;
Another noon, and eve,—another night
Of Stygian blackness,—and still ceaselessly,
As from wide-opened fountains in the sky,
The roaring deluge fell.

On the third morn
Again heaven's flood-gates closed; and, when gray light
Stole o'er the sky,—from their close shelter came
The wearied millions, and looked forth. But lo!
The spacious plain seemed now an inland sea:
In midst thereof,—with one high mound alone
Upstanding yet,—an island, low and dark,
And like a cauldron steaming. Where, so late,
The dwellings of the millions, pleasure-steeped;
Palace, and tower, and temple, battlement,
And rock-like wall, eternal deemed, had stood,—
One huge black waste of smouldering ashes lay!

So sank, to endless night, that glorious Nineveh!

THE END.