The Fall Of Nineveh. Book The Eleventh Poem by Edwin Atherstone

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,
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.

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;
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
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,
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,
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?
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.
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
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.''

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
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.

``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
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.'' 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?
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
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.
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.
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,
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:
``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:
``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
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;
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!
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.