The Fall Of Nineveh. Book The Twenty-First Poem by Edwin Atherstone

All night funereal darkness pall'd the earth;
The worn--out soldiers slumbered heavily:
The anxious chiefs themselves, in grave--like sleep,
Till morn lay locked; nor dreamed of victory,
Or of defeat. But a yet thicker gloom
Hung o'er the spirit of Assyria's king:
His strength again was gone; his eyes closed not;
The fearful present, in yet worse to--come,
As in a black, inevitable gulf,
Seemed hurrying on to plunge him. To and fro,
His restless limbs he tossed; oft rose, and trod,
With quick and anxious step, the velvet floor:
Anon would stop; with wild and haggard look,
Glare out on vacancy; then to his couch
Again sink down; and, vainly as before,
Invoke oblivious sleep. As restlessly,
The wounded queen her fragrant pillow pressed;
But not in like despair. Her eye was bright;
Her breathing quick; her heart with fever throbbed.
High were her hopes, and cheerful was her voice,
As, to her listening dames, all eagerly,
She visioned things to come. At length she rose;
Round her majestic person a rich robe
Of crimson silk, with gold embroidered, threw;
Her beauteous feet in silken slippers shod;
And to the chamber of the restless king,
With light firm step, advanced. Him, wrapped in gloom,
From out the window looking toward the plain,
She found; and, with a gay and hopeful voice,
Essayed to cheer him. ``Wherefore now cast down,
O king,'' she said; and on his shoulder placed
Her fair, but burning hand: ``lo! all the day,
With numbers fewer far, against the foe
Thy hosts have stood; and have not utterly,
Even so, been vanquished: then, dear lord, take heart;
And, on the morrow, let thine arms again
Blaze forth, and wither them. The gods, be sure,
Will give thee now the victory.'' In her face,
With sorrow looked he; marked her florid cheek,
Her brightly beaming eye, her hurried speech;
Felt her dry, burning hand; and knew, too well,
That fever fired her. With a solemn voice,
Then thus he answered. ``To thy bed return.
The leech hath warned thee that, by sleep unsoothed,
Thy wound may rancorous grow. Speak then no more:
Yet bid thy handmaids give thee cooling drinks;
For thy blood boileth in thee; and thy thoughts
Are all disordered.'' Saying thus, he rose;
Clasped her reluctant hand, and on her cheek
A kiss of pity pressed. Nought answered she,--
By those cold words displeased,--but turned and went.
The downcast king again his chamber paced,
And heavy sighs breathed forth. But soon, once more,
Gently the door was opened. In her hand
Bearing a dulcimer, Azubah stood,--
Her anxious face enquiring timidly
If she might enter. Silently awhile
She waited; then, with soft, beseeching voice,
``May I not sing to thee, O king,'' she said,
``And pour into thy sorrowing heart the balm
Of music, and sweet poesy?'' But her
Thus answered he: ``Not now: to every sound
That once could comfort bring, mine ears are deaf:
My thoughts are troubled, and my heart is sad.
Then leave me: I would be alone.''--He paused;
Upon her loving face gazed mournfully;
Then thus, with pitying accent, spake again.
``But who to thee, alas! shall comfort bring,
When the king's hour hath passed! and unto whom
Wilt thou for refuge fly!'' With hurried words,
And quivering lip, she answered. ``Unto none!
Whither thou go'st, there also will I go;
And to none else will I for comfort seek.''
He kissed her cheek, but spake not; and she went.

Then fell upon him a yet darker gloom;
And hastily he sent forth messengers,
Commanding wizards, and Chaldean seers,
To come before him. But afraid were all,
And hid themselves. Some bade their servants say,
``Our master in a grievous sickness lies;''
And some, ``Behold our lord is this day dead!''
So that not one among them might be found.

Perplexed and wrathful grew the despot then:
But, his rage curbing, once more he sent forth,
And Barak summoned. Nought afeard was he;
But rose at once; his sable vestments donned;
And soon, erect and proud, before the king,
Waiting his bidding, stood. ``Thou tremblest not;''
After long pause, while with a fiery glance,
From head to foot he scanned the audacious priest,
The king displeased began. ``Fearest thou not then?
Hast thou forgotten how, when last we spake,
Thy hateful life, too justly forfeited,
Hung as on gossamer thread? What hinders now
That I bid cut the line, and let thee sink
Down to the hell thou'rt doomed to? Answer, priest;
Say, wherefore should'st thou live.'' A gloomy smile
Curled the pale prophet's lip, as, all unmoved,
Thus answered he. ``My life, O king, by heaven,
Not man, may be commanded. At thy word,
Might the frail thread be severed, of a truth,
Ere now the worms had gnawed me. But I stand
Unfearing; for my time not yet is come;
Nor darest thou speed it. Once again, O king,
I warn thee,--thine, and mine, one hour to die;
By Fate irrevocably so decreed;
So by the gods pronounced; nor, by man's might,
One moment to be changed. While I shall live,
Thou shalt live also: slay me,--and, that hour,
Thy grave will open.'' While he spake, the king
An inward shudder felt; yet, proud of heart,
Affected scorn, and promptly thus replied.
``O'er much the gods then honor thee. Methinks
A monarch's death should stand alone in the year,
Like to some great eclipse; that all the world
Him solely might lament. But, cunning seer,
If so far in the future thou canst look,--
Lapse of long years, I trust,--deign, then, to gaze
Upon to--morrow's birth; and tell the event
Just coming into life. What if again,
With the next dawn, I lead my army forth,--
Shall we be victors? Answer--if thou darest:
But, first, bethink thee;--for, as true, or false,
Thou speakest now, so shalt thou live, or die.
And, may the gods, in my extremest need,
Aid, or destroy me, as this vow I keep!
If false thy prophecy, ere the next day's sun
Rise o'er the mountains, thou shalt die the death!
Then, ere thou answer, pause.'' While yet he spake,
The prompt reply began. ``No need for pause,
Forethought, or caution. Mighty as thou art,
King of Assyria, mightier are the gods.
Their doom thou canst not alter; their command
Hast heard, and disobeyed. Yet, once again,
Thus I proclaim it. Lead thine armies forth;
But, ere one step they move,--within thy court
Be the pile ready; and the victim sure.
If, then, the day go with thee,--as the Powers,
Approving, may decree,--it shall be well;
And still thy child may live. But, if the foe
Till noon prevail,--then surely may'st thou know
The gods are wroth with thee, and do require
The blood of expiation. Let the steam
Of sacrifice then to their nostrils mount;
And they, well pleased, may turn the face of wrath
Upon thine enemies: on thy side may fight;
And utterly destroy them from the earth.

But, if 'gainst heaven thou harden still thy heart,
Still do deny the sacrifice,--behold!
Thy kingdom shall pass from thee evermore!
Upon thy throne thine enemy shall sit,
And banquet in thy palaces! Thy queen,
Thy daughter, shall they take for concubines!
Thy sons shall put to death! thy cities seize,
Thy treasures, for a spoil. And thou, O king!
Unto thine enemies shalt be a sport,
A hissing, and a mockery! and, last,
Shalt ignominiously be put to death!''

With deep and awful tone the wizard spake;
Nor could the king reply; for wrath, and pride,
By supernatural dread were mastered quite,
That even his soul felt shudder. A brief space
The prophet stood; fixed on him his stern eye;
Then turned, and went his way. Down sank the king,
Grief--smitten, to his couch: and all the night
Moaned, and wept bitterly. Three days and nights,
With eyes scarce closing, did he weep and groan:
To neither man, nor woman, would he speak;
Nor would be comforted. But, when the morn
Of the fourth day was come, again he bade,
And Barak stood before him. Till the noon,
Sat they in conference; and the monarch's face,
Like a dusk cloud by quivering lightning touched,
With ghastly light 'gan glimmer. Not the less,
On the gaunt prophet's brow, as he retired,
Hung the dark frown; for he the despot knew
Uncertain as the wind. The king saw not,
But, with a feverish gaiety, sent forth,
And Salamenes summoned. When the prince
Before him came,--the monarch, with bright eye,
And eager utterance, questioned of the host,
Their numbers, and their spirit. Marvelling much
At that so sudden kindling, with sad tone,
Thus Salamenes answered. ``Most dread lord!
The words that I must speak, are bitterness:
Yet be not angered with me. Of the force
That late so joyously and strong went forth,
Full two score thousand sleep! Dejection dark,
Silence, and terror, o'er the living hang.
Within the city, restless prophets roam,
Predicting dire events: and, nigh the walls,
Each night the howl of desert beasts is heard.
Strange Things, 'tis said, in darkness walk the earth,
And flit along the air. No sun by day
Now gladdens us; but a dense roof of cloud,
Tomb--like, o'ervaults the earth. Some cry aloud,
`The king is with the dead, or surely now
Unto his people had he shown himself:'
And some, disheartened, stealthily have fled,
And with the rebel leagued. Oh, mighty lord!
If thou in this extremity rise not
To strengthen us, Assyria will be lost!''

Him, with flushed look, the impatient monarch heard;
And hastily replied: ``Dreamers, and fools,
Have all the rest infected,--ay, even thee;
For, like the wind in hollow sepulchre,
Soundeth thy voice; and corpse--like is thy hue.
But wild beasts to their deserts shall return;
False prophets be made silent; graves shall hold
Their tenants back; and once again the sun
Shall shine upon imperial Nineveh.
I will arise: I will go forth again;
And trample down mine enemies. But now,
Haste thou away: take from my treasures gold;
And largely unto every soldier give:
Then, on the morrow, ere the dawn shall peep,
Lead thou the host in silence from the walls;
And pour destruction on the enemy.
And let the heralds everywhere proclaim,
`Thus saith the king: be joyful, and be bold:
Now shall ye surely triumph; for the gods,
That have been wroth with us, will be appeased;
And give the audacious rebel to your swords.'
Let them cry also, `Be ye not cast down,
For that the king to battle goeth not:
He a great sacrifice doth offer up,--
So by heaven willed,--and may not lead you on:
But toward the field still will his eye be turned;
And he the brave will honor.''' With firm voice,
These words he spake; and greatly was the heart
Of Salamenes gladdened. Forth he went;
The princes, and the captains, summoned all;
And the king's words made known. Gold then he took;
That unto every soldier might be given,
With liberal measure; and the monarch's will
Throughout the camp proclaimed. So was the host
Made joyful; and, with strength and courage new,
Did every man for battle nerve himself.

But, when the night was come, thick gloom again
Fell on the spirit of Assyria's lord.
Throughout the palace had the word been sent,
That, on the morrow, Barak, as himself,
By all should be obeyed,--what act soe'er
Might be by him commanded. Like to one
Who by a precipice's brink doth stand,
Waiting the sign he dare not disobey,
To leap down headlong,--even so strength--bereft,
So by an iron destiny o'erruled,
Felt earth's proud master now! With strong desire,
Yet vainly, 'gainst the future did he strive
His thoughts to barrier: vainly did he long
In grave--like sleep to shut out consciousness
Of life and misery. To wine, at length,
For aid he flew; and deeply did he quaff,
To bring oblivion: yet his eyes closed not;
And wilder grew his thoughts. At length he called,
And bade that Dara, with the harp, should come,
To sing and play before him. In brief time,
The minstrel entered. Glad was then the king;
And said; ``Strike now with vigorous hand the lyre;
And pour a song of battle; for my heart
Is heavy, and dark thoughts oppress my soul.''

So Dara, with a hand of fire, o'erswept
The ringing chords; and lifted up his voice.

Deeply, the while, Sardanapalus drank
The cheering nectar; and said inwardly,
``Heart, be thou joyful: what hast thou to fear?''

But, as the moon, through dense clouds laboring,
When winds are loud, and heavy is the rain,--
One moment, with clear disk looks joyously
From her deep cave; but, in the next, again
Is by the rolling sea of vapour quenched,--
So, o'er the monarch's soul, if, for a while,
A glad light broke,--did blacker thoughts again
Sweep o'er, and bury it in thicker night.

At length, he bade to hush the harp awhile;
But, when the strings were silent, from without,
A sound was heard; and wrathfully he cried;
``What noise is that? Who of his wretched life
So weary is, that thus he dares disturb,
With his vile din, the slumber of the king?
Go, and command a silence.'' Bowing low,
Thus Dara answered: ``Gracious lord! the sound
Is of artificers who build the pile
Of sacrifice. As through the northern court
Hither I came, I saw, and questioned them.
Through all the night must they their labor ply,--
So answered they,--for, at the hour of noon,
The offering will be made.'' A bitter pang
Shot through the monarch, as these words he heard;
And hastily he spake: ``Touch then again
The harp; but gently now; and with such airs
As may invite to slumber. Let the tones
Steal dream--like through the air; and make no pause
Till sleep come o'er me. Then, when thou shalt see,
That a deep slumber wraps me,--go thou forth;
And, unto them who wait without, thus say;
`Let no man, on the peril of his life,
Dare to approach the chamber of the king,
Till thither summoned; neither through the night,
Nor on the morrow: whoso disobeys,
At once shall die the death.''' Thus having said,
A mighty goblet he drained hastily;
Sank on his couch; and closed his eyes for sleep.

Dara, with hand untiring, from the harp
Called breathing tones, and maze--like harmonies;
Such as a quiet spirit might have lapped
In dreams elysian. Now, they seemed to float,
Like some ethereal choir, in upper air;
Now, murmured like the moaning of the wind
In the dim forest: now, again came on,
Stealthily creeping, like a streamlet's voice
Borne on a gentle breeze; and, now, died off,
As from their own excess of sweetness faint.

But, to the monarch slumber came not soon.
Twice, when oblivion o'er his sense 'gan steal,
Suddenly up he sprang, with look like his
Who sees some horrible Shadow. From the cup
Again, as with a thirst unquenchable,
Then deeply drank he; and again outstretched
His trembling limbs for sleep. His eyes, at length,
Closed heavily: the world was all shut out.
The external perished; but the mind within,
Like to a buried fire, still hotly burned.
The tortured soul, her earthly organs still
Moved, though unconsciously; his hands, outspread,
Trembled, and clutched, as at some fearful thing;
His body shook; his breath was hard and quick;
His face with sweat bedewed; his quivering lips
Low muttered words gave forth. But, more and more,
Sleep gained the mastery; till, as with a chain,
Fast bound the body lay. Yet Dara feared
O'ersoon to leave him; lest the warring mind
Should break the fetter; and his wrath should rise,
To find himself alone. So, hushed as death,
Long time he waited; on the monarch's face
Anxiously gazing. Nought marked he, at first,
The tremulous words that from him 'gan to come:
But, starting soon, his face like marble grew:
His eyes stood wide; his slackening jaw fell down:
With arms extended, and one foot advanced,
Breathless he stood, as though, from crown to heel,
His body were all ear. The last death--spasm
More rigid scarce had made him; but alas!
Far less had tortured, than those dreadful words
Which had his soul transpierced. The hideous truth
Stood bare before him! Piecemeal was it told;
Yet clear, as if by sunbeams written down,
Stood the black whole revealed. He knew, at last,--
And the great horror seemed to stop his heart;
Curdle his blood, and dry his marrow up,--
He knew the victim for the sacrifice!

Stiffened like stone, long stood he; but, at length,
Desperately resolute, toward the tyrant stole:
Watched anxiously, till the relaxing hand,
And slower breathing, marked a heavier sleep;
Then from the finger, with a cautious touch,
The signet--ring drew off; and, with a step
Noiseless, and slow, as panther's when he glides
To spring upon his prey, the chamber left.

The charge he gave without, on pain of death,
That none, unsummoned, either on that night,
Or on the morrow, should the threshold cross,
Of the king's chamber: with a quick foot then,
And quicker beating heart, the victim sought,--
The royal maiden, of her hideous doom
Unconscious, as the kid that blithely skips
Within the tiger's spring. Her, all alone,
And wakeful, found he,--to the dulcimer
Singing a gentle hymn, ere, for the night,
Should close her tender lids. With face like death,
But gleaming eyes, and words of passionate fire,
The fearful tale he told: upon his knee
Sank trembling; and, while tears in torrents poured,
Conjured her instantly those fatal walls
To leave behind; and, in the sheltering arms
Of her loved mother's sister, far away,
Find sure repose, and safety. Horror--struck,
Nehushta paled, and shuddered; and, awhile,
Speechless and strengthless stood. ``Abide thou here,
Belovëd friend,'' at length, with tremulous lip,
She whispered: ``Thy dread words the queen must hear:
She will in all direct me.'' Tremblingly,
She took her way.--The mother o'er her child
Wept bitter tears. At midnight, through a gate
That faced the south, a small, but chosen band
Of mail--clad horsemen went: and, in the midst,
Two roomy chariots. They who rode within,
Were veilëd women, all in dark array.
No word was spoken. With dejected heads
They sat; and, ever and anon, a sob,
Ill stifled, might be heard. Their going forth,
No man opposed: the magic signet--ring,
Token of delegated power supreme,
None dared to question. With a beating heart,
But voice and look imperative, that sign
Still Dara showed; and every man obeyed.

The watchers at the gate, amazed beheld;
But bowed the head, and flung the portal wide.
Forth passed the train: again the hinges moaned
'Neath their huge load; the massive bolts again
Shot in their staples. Onward went the troop,
Slowly, and steadily. Long their horse--tread,
Still lessening, from the battlement was heard;
And great the marvel was, how, through that gloom,
Might path be found. At length the trampling ceased;
And they who marked it, to each other said,
``They stop perforce: the darkness shuts them in,
Like a black curtain; and turn back they must,
Or tarry till the day--break.'' But a ray
Of red light, as they thus debating stood,--
As 'twere an earth--star, far upon the plain,--
Gleamed suddenly; another rose; a third;
And yet a fourth appeared. Then came again,
But soft and faint as dropping of the rain
On the young grass of spring, the sound of hoofs,
Leisurely treading; and the listeners said,
``No,--they have kindled torches, and go on.
Strange hour for travel! But the king's command
Waits not the morning, if he wills the night.''

And then again they marvelled, guessing each
What might the cause of that strange journey be:
And, as they talked, still on the four red lights,
Slowly progressing, did they fix their eyes;
Till, as the distance lengthened, into one
The four converged; one dim and fading beam,
Like an expiring star. It sank at length,
In that deep sea of darkness swallowed up:
And the long silent gazers turned away,
And sighed, they knew not wherefore. All this time,
Racked by terrific dreams, the monarch lay;
In few hours seeming to live months of woe.
But, toward the morning, pleasant visions came.
The Israelitish seer, whom he had slain,
Appeared before him; and, with smiling face,
And gentle voice, thus seemed to speak to him.

``Arise; lead forth thy hosts,--for now is heaven
At thy obedience pleased; and it may be
The child shall not be asked for at thy hands.''

Thus having spoken, the pale prophet passed;
And, with gay voice, and cheerful countenance,
Nehushta came, and said, ``Belovëd sire!
Go forth, and scatter all thine enemies:
For, when thy daughter on the altar--stone
Shall lie, a willing victim,--then, behold!
The gods shall make thee terrible as Death;
That all shall sink before thee.'' Having said,
She also vanished: and another shade,
The spirit of his mother, stood and spake.
``The glory of this mighty Nineveh
Shall not yet perish. Get thee up, my son;
Gird on thy sword, and take thy spear and shield,
And in thy chariot drive against thy foes.
Like reeds before the mammoth, shall they fall
At thy on--coming: and the beauteous child,
Untouched, shall, from the stone of sacrifice,
Be given into thine arms.'' The lofty brow
Of the pale spectre--queen shone luminous,
While thus she spake; and in the monarch's breast
Seemed its own fire to pour. In vision then,
Forth went he; and his enemies, like dust
Before the whirlwind, scattered. With his lance,
Right through the heart Belesis he transfixed;
And with his falchion, even from crown to breast,
Clove the terrific Mede. Then did he shout
Exultingly; and all his myriads raised
Clamors of triumph, peal succeeding peal,
That, with the deafening uproar, he awoke.

But, when clear sense returned, behold! the sword
Was in his hand; and on his feet he stood,
Facing the field of battle. Giddiness, then,
At that strange wonder, seized upon his brain;
Till, like to one intoxicate, he reeled,
And sank upon the couch. But, in a while,
It passed away; and on his dream he thought,
And much was comforted. Then cheerfully
He called; and, when his servants entered, said;
``Command ye that my chariot be prepared;
My bow, and quiver, and spears numerous:
Bring hither armour, helmet, sword, and shield;
For, ere the day shall dawn, will I go forth,
And scatter all mine enemies. Yet, first,
To Salamenes a swift messenger
Send instantly,--and let him say, `Arise,
For the king calleth on thee.''' But the prince,
No summons needing, entered as he spake;
And, seeing him, well pleased, the monarch thus.
``Brave soldier! ever watchful; and most brave,
When peril threatens most! Thy mind had I,
Long since yon rebels had to deserts fled,
Or rotted in their graves. But now, with speed,
Arouse the host, ere yet the night be spent;
And lead them to the plain; but, silently,--
That, all unlooked for as a thunder--stone
From clear sky, we may strike. And let the word
To all be passed, `This day the king himself
Will lead you on to victory; for so,
In visions of the night, by heaven sent down,
Hath it been shown to him. The gods themselves
Have chosen a victim for the sacrifice:
But, ere the smoke shall to their nostrils mount,
From out the clouds will their right hands be seen,
Hurling destruction on our enemies.'''

Even while he spake, impatiently he 'gan
His radiant arms to don: his countenance
With fire unnatural flamed; and his full eyes
Gleamed lamp--like. Salamenes, wonder--struck
At that so sudden kindling, gladly thus.
``Thy armies, mighty king! upon the plain
Already are assembled; and but wait
The coming of thy servant: for I said
To the chief captains, ere they led them forth,
`When ye have ranked your soldiers on the field,
Tarry in silence till I come to you.
'Tis to the presence of the king I go;
For, haply, even yet may he arise,
And lead us in the battle: so the hearts
Of all shall gather courage, and our arms
With double vigour strike.''' ``Well hast thou done!''
Replied the monarch; ``Speed thou then away;
And cry, `The king comes forth; and Victory
Within his chariot rideth.''' Glad at heart,
Went Salamenes; and more hastily
The monarch armed himself. Anon came some,
Who said, ``The royal chariot is at hand;
But no where may be found the charioteer.
Perchance prince Dara, deeming that the king
This day would rest, hath to the field gone forth.''

``Presumptuous boy!'' exclaimed the indignant king;
``But now no time for question; he shall rue
This over--boldness. Meantime, send in haste,
And summon the chief captain of my guard,
Prince Tartan: he this day shall rule the steeds.
Send also on the instant, and command
That Barak come before me.'' In brief space,
The priest appeared; and, when they stood alone,
Him thus the king addressed. ``To thee full power
Have I this day appointed: as mine own,
Will thy command o'er all hold sway supreme.
But hearken now: and, as the morrow's dawn
Thou would'st behold, obey. If but one hair
Of that fair child, unbidden, thou shalt harm,--
So speed me heaven, as I thy hateful limbs
Will stretch, yet living, on the altar--fire,
And burn thee piecemeal. For the hour of noon.
Let all be ready: but, though direr rout
Than ever yet o'er battle--field hath swept,
Shall drive us,--yet, till thou the signal see,
Touch not the victim. Now, be this the sign:
Mark, and remember. If, above the tower
Of Nisroch thou behold a blood--red flag,--
Then seat the child beside the altar--stone:
But, after--mark me,--see thou touch her not,
Till one hour farther on his downward way
The sun hath journeyed. If thou then behold,--
As surely wilt thou, else the heavens have lied,--
That for our side the battle 'gins to turn;
Then, let the maiden forthwith be set free,
And with all honor to her chamber led.
There will she wait her conquering sire's return:
And there will he, with love, and gratitude,
Boundless as ocean overflowing, seek
How best he may requite her. Little fear

``Thy will, most mighty king,'' the priest replied,
``In all shall be obeyed. But, if thy hope
Be thwarted; if the gods be still displeased;
And, though the victim by the altar sit,
Turn not the day against thine enemy,--
Demanding still the sacrifice complete'' . . . . . .

``Curs'd priest! thou seek'st in vain to torture me!''
Fire flashing from his eyes, roared out the king;
``Demons, not gods, were they, so to demand.
It is impossible; and heaven were hell,
If this could be! Harm her,--and thou shalt lie
Ten years a dying! But no more. My will
Exactly know'st thou; strictly be it done.''

Thus having sternly spoken, he went forth;
And through the Nisroch gate drove rapidly.

As yet was but faint twilight. At slow pace,
And silently, the mighty mass of men
Cloud--like moved onward. In dark shadow lay
The Median camp,--the watch--fires all burnt out,--
And joyful was the spirit of the king;
Of victory assured, and full revenge.