ZENOBIA.

'Twas holyday in Rome. Her sevenfold hills Were trembling with the tread of multitudes Who thronged her streets. Hushed was the busy hum Of labor. Silent in the shops reposed The implements of toil. A common love Of country, and a zeal for her renown, Had warmed all hearts, and mingled for a day Plebian ardor with patrician pride. The sire, the son, the matron and the maid, Joined in bestowing on their emperor The joyous benedictions of the state. Alas! about that day's magnificence Was spread a web of shame! The victor's sword Was stained with cowardice—his dazzling fame Tarnished by insult to a fallen woman. Returning from his conquests in the East, Aurelian led in his triumphant train Palmyra's beauteous queen, Zenobia, Whose only crime had been the love she bore To her own country and her household gods. Long had the Orient owned the sovereign sway Of Rome imperial, and in forced submission Had bowed the neck to the oppressor's yoke. The corn of Syria, her fruits and wares, The pearls of India, Araby's perfumes, The golden treasures of the mountains, all Profusely poured in her luxurious lap, Crowned to the full her proud magnificence. Rome regal, throned on her eternal hills, With power supreme and wide-extended hand, Plundered the prostrate nations without stint Of all she coveted, and, chiefly thou, O Liberty, the birthright boon of Heaven. But Rome had passed her noon; her despotism Was overgrown; an earthquake was at work At her foundations; and new dynasties, Striking their roots in ripening revolutions, Were soon to sway the destinies of realms. The East was in revolt. The myriad seeds Of dark rebellion, sown by tyranny, And watered by the blood of patriots slain, Were springing into life on every hand. Success was alternating in this strife 'Twixt power and right, and anxious Victory, With balance poised, the doubtful issue feared. Amid the fierce contention, 'mid the din Of war's sublime encounter, and the crash Of falling systems old, Palmyra's queen Followed her valiant lord, Palmyra's king. Ever beside him in the hour of peril, She warded from his breast the battle's rage; And in the councils of the cabinet Her prudent wisdom was her husband's guide. Domestic treason, with insidious stab, Snatched from Zenobia's side her gallant lord, And threw into her hand the exigencies Of an unstable and capricious throne. Yet was her genius not inadequate. The precepts of experience, intertwined With intellectual power of lofty grade, Combined to raise Palmyra's beauteous queen High in the golden scale of moral greatness. Under the teachings of the good Longinus The streams of science flowed into her mind; And, like the fountain-fostered mountain lake, Her soul was pure as its ethereal food. The patronage bestowed on learned men Declared her love for letters. The rewards, Rich and unnumbered, she conferred on merit Her own refined, exalted taste betrayed. Her graceful and majestic figure, crowned With beauty such as few but angels wear, Like the rich casing that surrounds the gem, Heightened the splendor of her brilliant genius. Equally daring on the battle-field And in the chase, her prudence and her courage, Displayed in many a hot emergency, Had twined victorious laurel round her brow. Under her rule Palmyra's fortunes rose To an unequalled altitude, and wealth Flowed in upon her like a golden sea, Her wide dominion, stretching from the Nile To the far Euxine and Euphrates' flood— Her active commerce, whose expanded range Monopolized the trade of all the East— Her stately capital, whose towers and domes Vied with proud Rome in architectural grace— Her own aspiring aims and high renown— All breathed around the Asiatic queen An atmosphere of greatness, and betrayed Her bold ambition, and her rivalry With the imperial mistress of the world. But 't is the gaudiest flower is soonest plucked; The sturdiest oak first feels the builder's axe. Palmyra's rising greatness had awaked The jealousy of Rome, and Fortune looked On her prosperity with envious eye. Under the golden eagles of the empire, Aurelian's soldiers swept the thirsty sands, And poured into Palmyra's palmy plains, A mighty host hot for the battle-field. Borne on her gallant steed, the warrior queen The conflict sought, and led her eager troops Into the stern encounter. Like the storm Of their own desert plain, innumerable, They rushed upon the foe, and courted danger. Amid the serried ranks, whose steel array Glowed in the noonday sun, and threw a flood Of wavy sheen into the fragrant air, Zenobia rode; and, like an angry spirit, Commissioned from above to chastise men, Where'er she moved was death. There was a flash Of scorn that lighted up her fiery eye, A glance of wrath upon her countenance— There was a terror in her frenzied arm That struck dismay into the boldest heart. Alas for her, Fortune was unpropitious! Her fearless valor found an overmatch In the experienced prudence of Aurelian; And scarcely could the desert's hardy sons Cope with the practiced legions of the empire. The battle gained, Palmyra taken, sacked— Its queen a captive, hurled from off a throne, Stripped of her wide possessions, forced to sue In humblest attitude for even life— The haughty victor led his weary legions Back to Italia's shores, and in his train His fallen rival, loaded with chains of gold, Forged from the bullion of her treasury. 'Twas holyday in Rome. The morning sun, Emerging from the palace-crested hills Of the Campagna, poured a flood of light Upon the slumbering city, summoning Its teeming thousands to the festival. A playful breeze, rich-laden with perfume From groves of orange, gently stirred the leaves, And curled the ripples on the Tiber's breast, Bearing to seaward o'er the flowery plain The rising peans' joyful melodies. Flung to the wind, high from the swelling dome That crowned the Capitol, the imperial banner, Broidered with gold and glittering with gems, Unfurled its azure field; and, as it caught The sunbeams and flashed down upon the throng That filled the forum, there arose a shout Deep as the murmur of the cataract. In that spontaneous outburst of applause Rome spoke; and as the echo smote the hills It woke the slumbering memory of a time When Rome was free. A trumpet from the walls Proclaimed the day's festivities begun. Preceded by musicians and sweet singers, A long procession passed the city-gate, And, traversing the winding maze of streets, Climbed to the Capitol. Choice victims, dressed With pictured ornaments and wreaths of flowers, An offering to the tutelary gods, Led the advance. Then followed spoils immense, Baskets of jewels, vases of wrought gold, Paintings and statuary, cloths and wares, Of costliest manufacture, close succeeded By the rich symbols of Palmyra's glory, Torn from her temples and her palaces, To grace a triumph in the streets of Rome. With toilsome step next walked the captive queen; And then the victor, in his car of state, With milk-white horses of Thessalian breed, And in his retinue a splendid train Of Rome's nobility. In one long line The army last appeared in bright array, With banners high displayed, filling the air With songs of victory. The pageant proud Quickened remembrance of departed days, And warmed the bosoms of the multitude With deep devotion to the commonwealth. High in his gilded chariot, decked in robes Of broidered purple, and with laurel crowned, Rode the triumphant conqueror, in his hand The emblems of his power. The capital Of his wide empire was inflamed with zeal To do him honor and exalt his praise. The world was at his feet; his sovereign will None dared to question, and his haughty word Was law to nations. Yet his heart was troubled. In the dim distance he discerned the flight Of Freedom, on swift pinions heralding Enfranchisement to the oppressed of earth. He knew the feeble tenure of dominion Based on allegiance with reluctance paid; And read the future overthrow of Rome In the unyielding spirit of his victim. Uncovered in the sun, weary and faint, Bowed to the earth with chains of ravished gold, With feet unsandaled, walked Zenobia, Slave to the craven tyrant's cruelty. Neither her peerless beauty, nor her sex, Nor yet her grievous sufferings could melt The despot's stony heart. She, who surpassed Her conqueror in all the qualities Of head or heart which crown humanity With nobleness and high preëminence— She, whose misfortunes in a glorious cause, And not her errors, had achieved her ruin— Burdened with ignominy and disgrace For her resplendent virtues, not her crimes— She who had graced a palace, and dispensed Pardon to penitence, reward to worth, And tempered justice with benevolence— Wickedly torn from her exalted station, Now walked a captive in the streets of Rome, E'en at the feet of the oppressors steeds. Yet was her spirit all untamed. Disdain Still sat upon her countenance, and breathed Unmeasured scorn upon her persecutors. The blush of innocence upon her cheek, The burning pride that flashed within her eye, The majesty enthroned upon her brow, Told, in a language which the tyrant felt, That her unconquered spirit soared sublime In a pure orbit whither his sordid soul Could ne'er attain. Had he a captive led Some odious wretch, whose sanguinary crimes, Long perpetrated under sanction of a strength No arm could reach, had spread a pall of mourning Over a people's desolated homes, He then had right to triumph o'er his victim. But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambition Had led him to unsheath his victor sword Against a monarch whose distinctive sway Ravished from Rome no tittle of her right; And, to augment the aggregate of wrong, That monarch was a woman, whose renown, Compared with his, was gold compared with brass. As o'er the stony street the captive paced Her weary way before the victor's steeds, And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze, The look of calm defiance on her face Told that she bowed not to her degradation. Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all, The billows of the mad excitement dashed About her, and broke harmless at her feet. Dim reminiscences of former days Burst like a deluge on her errant mind; Leading her backward to the buried past, When in the artless buoyancy of youth She sat beneath Palmyra's fragrant shades And gleaned the pages of historic story, Red with Rome's bloody catalogue of wrong. Little she dreamed Palmyra's palaces Should e'er be scenes of Roman violence; Little she dreamed that hers should be the lot (A captive princess led in chains) to crown The splendor of a Roman holyday. Alas! the blow she thought not of had fallen. A bloody struggle, like a dreadful dream, Had briefly raged, and all to her was lost, Save the poor grace of a degraded life. Her sun of glory was gone down in blood— The glittering fabric of her power despoiled To swell the triumph of her conqueror. But in the wreck of her magnificence, With eye prophetic, she foresaw the ruin Of the proud capital of all the world. She saw the quickening symptoms of rebellion Among the nations, and she caught their cry For freedom and for vengeance! Hark! the Goth Is thundering at the gate, His reckless sword Leaps from the scabbard, eager to vindicate The cause of the oppressed. A thousand years The sun has witnessed in his daily course The tyranny of Rome, now crushed forever. The mighty mass of her usurped dominion, By its own magnitude at last dissevered, Is crumbling into fragments; and the shades Of long-forgotten generations shriek With fiendish glee over the yawning gulf Of her perdition.