PART II.
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Hast thou a scene that is not spread With records of thy glory fled? A monument that doth not tell The tale of liberty’s farewell? Italia! thou art but a grave Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave, And nature gives her treasures birth O’er all that hath been great on earth. Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child: Though fane and tomb alike are low, Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow; And, robed in that exulting ray, Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay— Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, In nature’s pomp magnificent! What marvel if, when all was lost, Still on thy bright enchanted coast, Though many an omen warn’d him thence, Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114] Still gazing on the lovely sky, Whose radiance woo’d him—but to die? Like him, who would not linger there, Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell? Hath not thy pure and genial air Balm for all sadness but despair?[115] No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace Not all thy magic can efface! Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn The world and all its gifts to spurn; Time may steal on with silent tread, And dry the tear that mourns the dead, May change fond love, subdue regret, And teach e’en vengeance to forget: But thou, Remorse! there is no charm Thy sting, avenger, to disarm! Vain are bright suns and laughing skies To soothe thy victim’s agonies: The heart once made thy burning throne, Still, while it beats, is thine alone. In vain for Otho’s joyless eye Smile the fair scenes of Italy, As through her landscapes’ rich array Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way. Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight Rises when nature laughs in light, Glides round him at the midnight hour, Is present in his festal bower, With awful voice and frowning mien, By all but him unheard, unseen. Oh! thus to shadows of the grave Be every tyrant still a slave! Where, through Gargano’s woody dells, O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,[116] A sainted hermit’s lowly tomb Is bosom’d in umbrageous gloom, In shades that saw him live and die Beneath their waving canopy. ’Twas his, as legends tell, to share The converse of immortals there; Around that dweller of the wild There “bright appearances” have smiled, And angel-wings at eve have been Gleaming the shadowy boughs between. And oft from that secluded bower Hath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour, A swell of viewless harps, a sound Of warbled anthems pealing round. Oh, none but voices of the sky Might wake that thrilling harmony, Whose tones, whose very echoes made An Eden of the lonely shade! Years have gone by; the hermit sleeps Amidst Gargano’s woods and steeps; Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrown And veil’d his low sepulchral stone: Yet still the spot is holy, still Celestial footsteps haunt the hill; And oft the awe-struck mountaineer Aërial vesper-hymns may hear Around those forest-precincts float, Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote. Oft will Affliction breathe her plaint To that rude shrine’s departed saint, And deem that spirits of the blest There shed sweet influence o’er her breast. And thither Otho now repairs, To soothe his soul with vows and prayers; And if for him, on holy ground, The lost one, Peace, may yet be found, Midst rocks and forests, by the bed Where calmly sleep the sainted dead, She dwells, remote from heedless eye, With nature’s lonely majesty. Vain, vain the search!—his troubled breast Nor vow nor penance lulls to rest: The weary pilgrimage is o’er, The hopes that cheer’d it are no more. Then sinks his soul, and day by day Youth’s buoyant energies decay. The light of health his eye hath flown, The glow that tinged his cheek is gone. Joyless as one on whom is laid Some baleful spell that bids him fade, Extending its mysterious power O’er every scene, o’er every hour: E’en thus he withers; and to him Italia’s brilliant skies are dim. He withers—in that glorious clime Where Nature laughs in scorn of Time; And suns, that shed on all below Their full and vivifying glow, From him alone their power withhold, And leave his heart in darkness cold. Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair— He only seems to perish there. Yet sometimes will a transient smile Play o’er his faded cheek awhile, When breathes his minstrel boy a strain Of power to lull all earthly pain— So wildly sweet, its notes might seem Th’ ethereal music of a dream, A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown, Deep thrilling power in every tone! Sweet is that lay! and yet its flow Hath language only given to woe; And if at times its wakening swell Some tale of glory seems to tell, Soon the proud notes of triumph die, Lost in a dirge’s harmony. Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved, Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved, Ere the sad strain could catch from thence Such deep impassion’d eloquence! Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy— He is no child of hope and joy! Though few his years, yet have they been Such as leave traces on the mien, And o’er the roses of our prime Breathe other blights than those of time. Yet seems his spirit wild and proud, By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d. Oh! there are sorrows which impart A sternness foreign to the heart, And, rushing with an earthquake’s power, That makes a desert in an hour, Rouse the dread passions in their course, As tempests wake the billows’ force!— ’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face, The stamp of woes like these to trace. Oh! where can ruins awe mankind Dark as the ruins of the mind? His mien is lofty, but his gaze Too well a wandering soul betrays: His full dark eye at times is bright With strange and momentary light, Whose quick uncertain flashes throw O’er his pale cheek a hectic glow: And oft his features and his air A shade of troubled mystery wear, A glance of hurried wildness, fraught With some unfathomable thought. Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’d Dwells the sad secret in his breast; The pride his haughty brow reveals All other passion well conceals— He breathes each wounded feeling’s tone In music’s eloquence alone; His soul’s deep voice is only pour’d Through his full song and swelling chord. He seeks no friend, but shuns the train Of courtiers with a proud disdain; And, save when Otho bids his lay Its half unearthly power essay In hall or bower the heart to thrill, His haunts are wild and lonely still. Far distant from the heedless throng, He roves old Tiber’s banks along, Where Empire’s desolate remains Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains; Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine That strews the desert Palatine, With mournful yet commanding mien, Like the sad genius of the scene, Entranced in awful thought appears To commune with departed years. Or at the dead of night, when Rome Seems of heroic shades the home; When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls The mighty to their ancient halls; When hush’d is every meaner sound, And the deep moonlight-calm around Leaves to the solemn scene alone The majesty of ages flown— A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom; And midst those dwellings of decay At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, ’Tis like a dirge for empires gone! Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet’s hour along!— The feast is spread, and music’s call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave and trophies shine O’er stately guests in glittering line; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep— The still small voice of conscience—die, Lost in the din of revelry. On his pale brow dejection lowers, But that shall yield to festal hours; A gloom is in his faded eye, But that from music’s power shall fly; His wasted cheek is wan with care, But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, Strike the bold chord exultingly! And pour upon the enraptured ear Such strains as warriors love to hear! Let the rich mantling goblet flow, And banish aught resembling woe; And if a thought intrude, of power To mar the bright convivial hour, Still must its influence lurk unseen, And cloud the heart—but not the mien! Away, vain dream!—on Otho’s brow, Still darker lower the shadows now; Changed are his features, now o’erspread With the cold paleness of the dead; Now crimson’d with a hectic dye, The burning flush of agony! His lip is quivering, and his breast Heaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d; Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed, And now to heaven in anguish raised; And as, with unavailing aid, Around him throng his guests dismay’d, He sinks—while scarce his struggling breath Hath power to falter—“This is death!” Then rush’d that haughty child of song, Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng. Fill’d with a strange delirious light, His kindling eye shone wildly bright; And on the sufferer’s mien awhile Gazing with stem vindictive smile, A feverish glow of triumph dyed His burning cheek, while thus he cried:— “Yes! these are death-pangs—on thy brow Is set the seal of vengeance now! Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught, And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d; And bitter as thy pangs may be, They are but guerdons meet from me! Yet these are but a moment’s throes— Howe’er intense, they soon shall close. Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath— My life hath been a lingering death, Since one dark hour of woe and crime, A blood-spot on the page of time! “Deem’st thou my mind of reason void? It is not frenzied—but destroy’d! Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought— That work of ruin thou hast wrought! The secret of thy doom to tell, My name alone suffices well! Stephania!—once a hero’s bride! Otho! thou know’st the rest—he died. Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word, The Roman fell, untried, unheard! And thou, whose every pledge was vain, How couldst thou trust in aught again? “He died, and I was changed—my soul, A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control. From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d, The outcast of a purer world, I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown, And lived for one dread task alone. The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow— The hand of death is on thee now. Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d, The debt of blood shall soon be paid! Thine hour is come—the time hath been My heart had shrunk from such a scene; That feeling long is past—my fate Hath made me stern as desolate. “Ye that around me shuddering stand, Ye chiefs and princes of the land! Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom? Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb! He sleeps unhonour’d—yet be mine To share his low, neglected shrine. His soul with freedom finds a home, His grave is that of glory—Rome! Are not the great of old with her, That city of the sepulchre? Lead me to death! and let me share, The slumbers of the mighty there!” The day departs—that fearful day Fades in calm loveliness away: From purple heavens its lingering beam Seems melting into Tiber’s stream, And softly tints each Roman hill With glowing light, as clear and still As if, unstain’d by crime or woe, Its hours had pass’d in silent flow. The day sets calmly—it hath been Mark’d with a strange and awful scene: One guilty bosom throbs no more, And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er. And thou, ere yet another sun His burning race hath brightly run, Released from anguish by thy foes, Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose. Yes! on thy country’s lovely sky Fix yet once more thy parting eye! A few short hours—and all shall be The silent and the past for thee. Oh! thus with tempests of a day We struggle, and we pass away, Like the wild billows as they sweep, Leaving no vestige on the deep! And o’er thy dark and lowly bed The sons of future days shall tread, The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot, By them unknown, by thee forgot.
THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
[“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city—a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day—on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him.”—Langhorne’s Plutarch.]
Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, O stately Alexandria!—yet the sound Of mirth and music, at the close of day, Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, In gay magnificence the feast was spread; And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes, That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies. And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d In godlike beauty, awfully serene. Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined Round that luxurious board!—in every face Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth, But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth. Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom May still survive the wearers—and the rose Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb Receives the mighty to its dark repose! The day must dawn on battle, and may set In death—but fill the mantling wine-cup high! Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet Lend her one hour for parting revelry. They who the empire of the world possess’d Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest. Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien, And read their annals on that brow of care! Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been: Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair. Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire The buoyant energies of days gone by; There is delusion in its meteor fire, And all within is shame, is agony! Away! the tear in bitterness may flow, But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe. Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow, To that ascendant and undying name, Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now. Thy glory is departed, but hath left A lingering light around thee: in decay Not less than kingly—though of all bereft, Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away. Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate! But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made His desolation—thou art by his side, In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d, To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride. Imperial being! e’en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, there is power In thy commanding nature, which shall reign O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour; And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity. Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light Inspiring and inspired—thy cheek a dye, Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright With the deep glow of feverish energy. Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught With an immortal fire—in every beam It darts, there kindles some heroic thought, But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream; For thou with death hast communed to attain Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118] And the stern courage by such musings lent, Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent With all the majesty of mighty woes: While he, so fondly, fatally adored, Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet, Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’d Can deem the day-star of its glory set; Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be In sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee. But there is sadness in the eyes around, Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound Strange triumph chases haughtily away. “Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries; “Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep! Ere sunset gild once more the western skies Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep; While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea, And the red bowl again is crown’d—but not for me. “Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er, O victors of Philippi! many a field Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more! By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d. Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world How royally your eagle’s wing hath spread, Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d, Now bursts the tempest on his crested head! Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky, The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop—but die.” The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night— Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep; From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry light The moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep. For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams, The battle-signal to decide their doom, Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;— Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb; Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease, When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace. Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a sound Of gathering tumult?—Near and nearer still Its murmur swells. Above, below, around. Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill. Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note Of pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread, Is heard upon the midnight air to float; And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth, Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth. These are no mortal sounds—their thrilling strain Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high; And the deep horror chilling every vein Owns them of stern terrific augury. Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away, O ye invisible and awful throng! Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along. Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky By that dread sign reveals thy doom—“Despair and die!”[119]
ALARIC IN ITALY.
[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire thus proceeds:—“Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the fabulous monsters of the deep—the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis—could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work.”—Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. v. p. 329.]
Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? His steps have track’d that glorious clime, The birth-place of heroic time; But he, in northern deserts bred, Spared not the living for the dead,[120] Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries From temple and from tomb arise. He pass’d—the light of burning fanes Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains; And woke they not—the brave, the free, To guard their own Thermopylæ? And left they not their silent dwelling, When Scythia’s note of war was swelling? No! where the bold Three Hundred slept, Sad freedom battled not—but wept! For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand, And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; Nor one high soul from slumber broke When Athens own’d the northern yoke. But was there none for thee to dare The conflict, scorning to despair? O City of the seven proud hills! Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills, As doth a clarion’s battle-call— Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall? Did no Camillus from the chain Ransom thy Capitol again? Oh, who shall tell the days to be No patriot rose to bleed for thee! Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121] Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:— How woke the mighty? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th’ ascendant star of destiny! She woke—to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour’d from a thousand agonies! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine: Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O’er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying. Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er Should tears alone thy wrongs declare! The time hath been when thy distress Had roused up empires for redress! Now, her long race of glory run, Without a combat Rome is won, And from her plunder’d temples forth Rush the fierce children of the North, To share beneath more genial skies Each joy their own rude clime denies. Ye who on bright Campania’s shore Bade your fair villas rise of yore, With all their graceful colonnades, And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, Along the blue Hesperian deep, Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep— Beneath your olive and your vine Far other inmates now recline; And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed With rich libations duly shed,[122] O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends, Its bowery canopy extends. For them the southern heaven is glowing, The bright Falernian nectar flowing; For them the marble halls unfold, Where nobler beings dwelt of old, Whose children for barbarian lords Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords. Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. Yet, though luxurious they repose Beneath Corinthian porticoes— While round them into being start The marvels of triumphant art— Oh! not for them hath Genius given To Parian stone the fire of heaven, Enshrining in the forms he wrought A bright eternity of thought. In vain the natives of the skies In breathing marble round them rise, And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade People the dark-green laurel shade. Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye To visions of divinity; And rude his hand which dares deface The models of immortal grace. Arouse ye from your soft delights! Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites; And other lands must yet be won, And other deeds of havoc done. Warriors! your flowery bondage break, Sons of the stormy North, awake! The barks are launching from the steep— Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123] And Afric’s burning winds afar Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war. Where shall his race of victory close? When shall the ravaged earth repose? But hark! what wildly mingling cries From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise? Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air? A sterner conquerer hath been there! A conqueror—yet his paths are peace, He comes to bring the world’s release; He of the sword that knows no sheath, The avenger, the deliverer—Death! Is then that daring spirit fled? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? Tamed are the warrior’s pride and strength, And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now—a grave alone. But his—her lord from Alp to sea— No common sepulchre shall be! Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye Its buried wealth may ne’er descry! Where mortal foot may never tread Above a victor-monarch’s bed. Let not his royal dust be hid ’Neath star-aspiring pyramid; Nor bid the gather’d mound arise, To bear his memory to the skies. Years roll away—oblivion claims Her triumph o’er heroic names; And hands profane disturb the clay That once was fired with glory’s ray; And Avarice, from their secret gloom, Drags e’en the treasures of the tomb. But thou, O leader of the free! That general doom awaits not thee: Thou, where no step may e’er intrude, Shalt rest in regal solitude, Till, bursting on thy sleep profound, The Awakener’s final trumpet sound. Turn ye the waters from their course, Bid Nature yield to human force, And hollow in the torrent’s bed A chamber for the mighty dead. The work is done—the captive’s hand Hath well obey’d his lord’s command. Within that royal tomb are cast The richest trophies of the past, The wealth of many a stately dome, The gold and gems of plunder’d Rome; And when the midnight stars are beaming, And ocean waves in stillness gleaming, Stern in their grief, his warriors bear The Chastener of the Nations there; To rest at length from victory’s toil, Alone, with all an empire’s spoil! Then the freed current’s rushing wave Rolls o’er the secret of the grave; Then streams the martyr’d captives’ blood To crimson that sepulchral flood, Whose conscious tide alone shall keep The mystery in its bosom deep. Time hath past on since then—and swept From earth the urns where heroes slept; Temples of gods and domes of kings Are mouldering with forgotten things; Yet not shall ages e’er molest The viewless home of Alaric’s rest: Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, The guardian of his dust for ever.
THE WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.
[“This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage—this fierce Asdrubal was so mean-spirited as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror’s feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal’s wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,—‘Base coward!’ said she, ‘the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.’ Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames.”—Ancient Universal History.]
The sun sets brightly—but a ruddier glow O’er Afric’s heaven the flames of Carthage throw. Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendour from her domes aspire; Sway’d by the wind, they wave—while glares the sky As when the desert’s red simoom is nigh; The sculptured altar and the pillar’d hall Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; Far o’er the seas the light of ruin streams— Rock, wave, and isle are crimson’d by its beams; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains, Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victors’ tents with ivy crown’d.[124] —But mark! from yon fair temple’s loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? She might be deem’d a Pythia in the hour Of dread communion and delirious power; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendency. The flames are gathering round—intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor light; But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound Waves like a warrior’s floating plumage round; Flush’d is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien— She seems the avenging goddess of the scene. Are those her infants, that with suppliant cry Cling round her shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast? Is that a mother’s glance, where stern disdain, And passion, awfully vindictive, reign? Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands; On him who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children’s martyrdom; Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. “Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!—with blasted name, The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! E’en now my sons shall die—and thou, their sire, In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. Think’st thou I love them not?—’Twas thine to fly— ’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate!—the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.” Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.
HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.
[From Maccabees, book ii. chapter 3, verse 21. “Then it would have pitied a man to see the falling down of the multitude of all sorts, and the fear of the high priest, being in such an agony.—22. They then called upon the Almighty Lord to keep the things committed of trust safe and sure, for those that had committed them.—23. Nevertheless Heliodorus executed that which was decreed.—24. Now as he was there present himself, with his guard about the treasury, the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all Power, caused a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid.—25. For there appeared unto them a horse with a terrible rider upon him, and adorned with a very fair covering; and he ran fiercely, and smote at Heliodorus with his fore-feet, and it seemed that he that sat upon the horse had complete harness of gold.—26. Moreover, two other young men appeared before him, notable in strength, excellent in beauty, and comely in apparel, who stood by him on either side, and scourged him continually, and gave him many sore stripes.—27. And Heliodorus fell suddenly to the ground, and was compassed with great darkness; but they that were with him took him up, and put him into a litter.—28. Thus him that lately came with great train, and with all his guard into the said treasury, they carried out, being unable to help himself with his weapons, and manifestly they acknowledged the power of God.—29. For he by the hand of God was cast down, and lay speechless without all hope of life.”]
A sound of woe in Salem! mournful cries Rose from her dwellings—youthful cheeks were pale, Tears flowing fast from dim and aged eyes, And voices mingling in tumultuous wail; Hands raised to heaven in agony of prayer, And powerless wrath, and terror, and despair. Thy daughters, Judah! weeping, laid aside The regal splendour of their fair array, With the rude sackcloth girt their beauty’s pride, And throng’d the streets in hurrying, wild dismay; While knelt thy priests before His awful shrine Who made of old renown and empire thine. But on the spoiler moves! The temple’s gate, The bright, the beautiful, his guards unfold; And all the scene reveals its solemn state, Its courts and pillars, rich with sculptured gold; And man with eye unhallow’d views th’ abode, The sever’d spot, the dwelling-place of God. Where art thou, Mighty Presence! that of yore Wert wont between the cherubim to rest, Veil’d in a cloud of glory, shadowing o’er Thy sanctuary the chosen and the blest? Thou! that didst make fair Sion’s ark thy throne, And call the oracle’s recess thine own! Angel of God! that through the Assyrian host, Clothed with the darkness of the midnight hour, To tame the proud, to hush the invader’s boast, Didst pass triumphant in avenging power, Till burst the day-spring on the silent scene, And death alone reveal’d where thou hadst been. Wilt thou not wake, O Chastener! in thy might, To guard thine ancient and majestic hill, Where oft from heaven the full Shechinah’s light Hath stream’d the house of holiness to fill? Oh! yet once more defend thy loved domain, Eternal One! Deliverer! rise again! Fearless of thee, the plunderer undismay’d Hastes on, the sacred chambers to explore Where the bright treasures of the fane are laid, The orphan’s portion and the widow’s store: What recks his heart though age unsuccour’d die, And want consume the cheek of infancy? Away, intruders!—hark! a mighty sound! Behold, a burst of light!—away, away! A fearful glory fills the temple round, A vision bright in terrible array! And lo! a steed of no terrestrial frame, His path a whirlwind and his breath a flame! His neck is clothed with thunder,[125] and his mane Seems waving fire—the kindling of his eye Is as a meteor—ardent with disdain His glance, his gesture, fierce in majesty! Instinct with light he seems, and form’d to bear Some dread archangel through the fields of air. But who is he, in panoply of gold, Throned on that burning charger? Bright his form, Yet in its brightness awful to behold, And girt with all the terrors of the storm! Lightning is on his helmet’s crest—and fear Shrinks from the splendour of his brow severe. And by his side two radiant warriors stand, All arm’d, and kingly in commanding grace— Oh! more than kingly—godlike!—sternly grand, Their port indignant, and each dazzling face Beams with the beauty to immortals given, Magnificent in all the wrath of heaven. Then sinks each gazer’s heart—each knee is bow’d In trembling awe; but, as to fields of fight, Th’ unearthly war-steed, rushing through the crowd, Bursts on their leader in terrific might; And the stern angels of that dread abode Pursue its plunderer with the scourge of God. Darkness—thick darkness!—low on earth he lies, Rash Heliodorus—motionless and pale— Bloodless his cheek, and o’er his shrouded eyes Mists, as of death, suspend their shadowy veil; And thus th’ oppressor, by his fear-struck train, Is borne from that inviolable fane. The light returns—the warriors of the sky Have pass’d, with all their dreadful pomp, away; Then wakes the timbrel, swells the song on high Triumphant as in Judah’s elder day; Rejoice, O city of the sacred hill! Salem, exult! thy God is with thee still.