Indignant valour's flame;
Then glow'd the lamp of life,
Now pale and wavering as the dews of death,
Slow quench its fading light.
God of my fathers, thou hast seen my life
Worn in defence of thee;
Thou hast beheld me firm in danger's face,
Maintain thy holy cause,
Amid embattled hosts
Defend thy mystic rites.
Now to the unknown world,
Unchill'd by fear, I sink;
And whilst my chilly limbs grow fairt,
Whilst death's dull mists bedim my eye,
Hope lifts my soul to thee.
THE lily cheek, the "purple light of love,"
The liquid lustre of the melting eye-
Mary! of these the poet sung, for these
Did woman triumph. With no angry frown
View this degrading conquest! At that age
No Maid of Arc had snatched from coward man
The avenging sword of freedom; woman-kind
Recorded then no Roland's martyrdom;
No Corde's angel and avenging arm
Had sanctified again the murderer's name,
As erst when Cæsar perished: yet some strains
May even adorn this theme, befitting me
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.
The subject from the third and fourth chapters of the Book of Esdras.
GLAD as the weary traveller, tempest-tost,
To reach secure at length his native coast,
Who wandering long o'er distant lands has sped,
The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
The journey o'er, and every peril past,
Beholds his little cottage-home at last;
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
Feels his full eyes with transport overflow;
So from the scene where death and anguish reign,
And vice and folly drench with blood the plain,
Joyful I turn, to sing how woman's praise
Availed again Jerusalem to raise,
Called forth the sanction of the despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.
Darius gives the feast: to Persia's court,
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort:
Attending satraps swell the prince's pride,
And vanquish'd monarchs grace their conqueror's side.
No more the warrior wears the garb of war,
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car;
No more Judæa's sons dejected go,
And hang the head, and heave the sigh of wo.
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train,
From wnere Orontes foams along the plain,
From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, to grace the feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest;
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair,
They tinge the cheek which nature formed so fair,
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.
Exalted on the monarch's golden throne,
In royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire,
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire.
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the crown she wore.
Now on his couch reclined Darius lay,
Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day;
Without Judæa's watchful sons await,
To guard the sleeping pageant of the state.
Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,
Three youths whom nature dowered with every grace,
To each the form of symmetry she gave,
And haughty genius cursed each favourite slave;
These filled the cup, around the monarch kept,
Served as he spake, and guarded whilst he slept.
Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid low The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;
And when the dull and wearying round of Power
Allowed Zorobabel one vacant hour,
He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam,
And stretch the gaze towards his distant home;
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined,
Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.
As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their light,
And social converse cheers the livelong night,
Thus spake Zorobabel: "Too long in vain
For Zion desolate her sons complain;
In anguish worn the joyless years lag slow,
And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe.
Whilst Cyrus triumphed here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheered our exiled fate,
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain,
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.
Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign,
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
Now when Darius, chief of mild command,
Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
And, sternly silent, shun to seek relief?
What if amid the monarch's mirthful throng
Our harps should echo to the cheerful song?
"Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, "Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. While the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, And wine's strong fumes inspire the maddened soul Where all around is merriment, be mine
To strike the lute, and praise the power of wine."
"And while," his friend replied, "in state alone,
Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne,
Be yours the mighty power of wine to sing,
My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's king."
To them Zorobabel: "On themes like these
Seek the monarch of mankind to please;
To wine superior, or to power's strong arms,
Be mine to sing resistless woman's charms.
To him victorious in the rival lays
Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;
The purple robe his honoured frame shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;
A golden couch support his bed of rest,
The chain of honour grace his favoured breast;
His the soft turban, his the car's array,
O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way,
And for his wisdom seated on the throne,
For the king's cousin shall the bard be known."
Intent they meditate the future lay,
And watch impatient for the dawn of day.
The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,
The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;
To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,
Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court.
High on his throne Darius towered in pride,
The fair Apame graced the sovereign's side;
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown
Placed on her brow the monarch's sacred crown.
In transport o'er her fauitness form he bends,
Loves every look, and every act commends.
And now Darius bids the herald call
Judæa's bard to grace the thronging hall.
Husht is each sound-the attending crowd are mute,
The Hebrew lightly strikes the cheerful lute:
When the traveller on his way,
Who has toiled the livelong day,
Feels around on every side
The chilly mists of eventide,
Fatigued and faint his weary mind
Recurs to all he leaves behind;
He thinks upon the well-trimmed hearth,
The evening hour of social mirth,
And her who at departing day
Weeps for her husband far away;
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