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

All night, and till the noon, in heavy sleep
The wretched monarch lay: and, when he waked,
So was his mind distraught, that, for a time,
He thought not of the dreadful yesterday,
Nor of the direr future. Sense confused,
And troubled, had he, of some desperate strife;
Some crushing evil past, or hovering nigh;
Yet, if a truth it was, or but a dream,
He knew not; and to think upon it feared,
Lest the dim phantom should before him stand,
A dread reality. Yet more and more
His cloudy thoughts took shape. As when, at dawn,
Young Daylight, still beneath earth's ball opaque
Far distant, on heaven's dusky firmament,
First opes his lustrous eyes,--with stealthy foot,
Night's shadows creep away; and, one by one,
Hill, stream, and tree, and valley, from the gloom
Slowly emerging, gather shape, and hue,
Till all the well--known prospect stands distinct,--
So, to his clearing reason, 'gan return
Remembrance of the strife--the rout--the flight--
The hideous blood--red flag,--the appalling smoke,
Omening horrors inexpressible!
Beyond that, all was darkness. Had she 'scaped?
Or had she perished? Was the battle won?
Or was Assyria lost? As thus he thought,
A sudden strength came on him. Starting up,
He spread his arms, and cried, ``Where is my child,--
My loved Nehushta? Hath the rebel fallen?
And doth my daughter live?'' Beside his couch,
Stood Peresh, and Azubah: in alarm,
Backward they shrank; for, such his frenzied look,
So wild and strange his voice,--nought doubted they
Madness had seized him. But the leech drew nigh;
And, bending low, with soft persuasive tone,
Said, ``Let my lord the king yet rest awhile;
Nor with unquiet thoughts perplex himself.''

Azubah, too, stepped forward, pressed his hand,
And whispered tenderly, ``Be comforted,
I pray thee now; lest that thy sickness come
Again upon thee.'' Yet he heeded not;
And the physician fiercely questioned still;
``Hath the child perished? Answer instantly,
Or thou shalt die!'' Unknowing what he meant,
Peresh was silent. Hot with rage, the king
Sprang to his feet; and, by his silvery hair,
The old man seizing, raised his arm to strike.
But, with a shriek, Azubah caught his hand.
``Nay, nay,'' she cried; ``for shame and charity,
Harm not the man to whom thy life is owed!
Surely thy daughter liveth.'' When these words
The king had heard, his rigid limbs relaxed;
His arms dropped down; and on the couch he sank:
But, on Azubah fixing still his eyes,
``Speak yet again: doth the child truly live?
And is the battle won? Pause not to think,
Else I misdoubt thee: doth Nehushta live?
And is the rebel trampled under foot?''

Azubah, dreading to make known to him
That conflict's direful end, turned pale, and stood
Silent, and trembling: but, with so fierce tone,--
Upstarting to his feet, and grasping hard
Her shrinking wrist,--again he questioned her,
That she perforce replied: ``With truth, O king,
I answered thee; surely thy child doth live;
For she hath not been sick: but, oh! my lord!
Thy host hath fallen before the enemy;
Utterly fallën!'' When these words he heard,
The king released her hand; upon the couch
Slowly sat down; and, for a time, was mute.
With head depressed, hands clasped, and eye--lids closed,
Groaning he sat: at length, with hoarse voice, thus:
``Bid Salamenes hither: say the king
Anxiously waiteth.'' Peresh, bowing low,
With sad tone answered him, ``My gracious lord!
The prince, alas! is slain! The noble corpse
Within the ruby chamber waits the grave!''

Suddenly starting, with a ghastly stare,
The king looked up,--as though the thing he heard,
Were against nature, and impossible.
``Slain? slain?--where? when? Oh gods! is this the boon
Ye promised on obedience! Quickly say,
How fell he,--when--and by what hand accursed?''

Reverently bending, thus the leech replied.
``In battle fell the prince. An arrow pierced
Through the steel cuirass, deep into his side:
Unknown the arm that sent it. From the field,
Yet living, was he borne: all tender care,
And cheering sympathy of human love,
The sorrowing queen bestowed: but nought could stay
The fatal doom: and, ere two hours had passed,
The noble spirit fled!'' Again, with grief
Bowed down, long time in silence sat the king:
At length thus spake; ``Retire ye both awhile;
And let it to the queen be said, `The king
Asketh to see thee, for his heart is sad!'''

With low voice Peresh answered: ``Most dread lord!
The queen is with a grievous sickness bowed;
And lieth on her bed: yea death, and life,
Do combat for her; and the worst I fear!''

Hearing these words, at once the monarch rose,
Though weak and trembling; and her chamber sought.
But the queen knew him not. Delirium still
Strongly possessed her: and her frantic words
Tortured, and vexed him. To the chamber then,
Where cold, blind, dumb, lay what so long had been
His truest friend, his wisest counsellor,
The heart--sick mourner went. Alone he stood:
Bent o'er the clay, he poured a flood of tears;
Smote on his bosom; clasped his hands; groaned out
In bitterest anguish; rent his robe, his hair;
Called on the dead, and bade him live again,--
Live to redeem his king, and country still.

No voice replied; no gladdening smile; no glance
Encouraging of that heroic eye,
Which, like a bright star in a stormy night,
So oft had cheered, and guided! All was hushed.
The gorgeous chamber seemed a sepulchre;
The warm, perfumëd atmosphere smelt cold,
And corpse--like. Inly shuddering, a last look
On the still clay he cast; groaned heavily,
And to his chamber went. Long there he lay,
Silent, and melancholy: but, at length,
His captains summoned; and in council deep,
And anxious, with them sat. Then learned he all
That battle's direful loss. Dejected looks
Were on the bravest; their best words were few,
And sorrowful. No counsel could they give,
Save, in their walls with patience to abide
The coming of events. The king, meantime,
New aid should summon: all the countless hordes
Of riches in Assyria's vaults upheaped,
Should freely be showered forth: fresh armies yet
Might be allured: a better day might come:
They must in patience wait. So was resolved.
But, first, unto the Medes should heralds go,--
A three--days' truce to make; that both the hosts
Their dead might bury. Closed the council then;
And the king sat alone. Impatiently

Longed he his child within his arms to clasp,
But yet, to meet her feared. Thus ran his thoughts.
``Would I could see her! Yet I cannot look
Upon her gentle face, and hear her voice,
All tenderness and love; for every tone,
And look, would sting me, thinking on the fate
To which I risked her. ``Still, is her escape
A mystery, that in vain I strive to pierce.
The battle hath been lost; and yet she lives,
Whose death had won for us the victory!
So said the gods; so said, at least, the priests.
Why was the victim spared, when such the cost?
To Barak power that none might dare withstand,
Was given: he on me urged that sacrifice,
As the one only mean, by which the gods
Might be appeased: yet, though from morn till night
'Gainst us the foe prevailed, he laid not hand
Upon the saving victim. Why was this?
In treason was it done, that to the foe
Might be the victory? No; for, in the fight,
He rescued me, when else I had been slain.
Feared he, perchance, lest, if the child should die,
He too should perish? Nay--in verity,
Most dauntless is the man; and his own life
Seemeth to hold at nought. But idle this:
He shall stand forth, and answer for himself.''

The priest was summoned; and with speed appeared.
With a stern, gloomy look, awhile the king
Regarded him, then questioned. With proud mien,
Him Barak boldly answered. ``Doth the king
Mock at his servant, that he asketh thus?
Knoweth he not that, privily by night,
His daughter, with Prince Dara, left the walls,
And hath not since returned?'' Astonishment
Held the king mute; and Barak thus pursued.
``An hour ere noon, as thou didst give command,
I called to bring the victim. Through thy halls,
And chambers; through thy vaults, thy labyrinths,
Thy terraces, thy gardens, all in vain,
The searchers flew;--the maiden had escaped.
To every watcher at the city gates
Then question went; and thus, at length, was learned.
At midnight, from the Phrygian gate passed forth
Two royal chariots: they who sat within,
Were women, veiled, and silent. In the front,
On either hand, and in the rear, there rode
Mailed horsemen. One alone, of all the train,
Spake for the rest. With voice imperative,
Showing the sign of delegated power,
The royal signet--ring, Prince Dara bade
The gate to open; and none dared withstand;
Or question ask.'' While thus the wizard spake,
Sharply his hand uplifting, the king saw
The ring, indeed, was gone: and fiercest rage
To the soul convulsed him. In a moment, came
Clearest remembrance how, on that same night,
Had Dara to his chamber brought the harp,
And soothed him to repose. With flashing eye,
And face inflamed, upstarting, ``Wretch!'' he cried,
``Robber! he stole it from me as I slept!
Perchance some word, in slumber breathed, gave note
Of what I purposed; and the caitiff dared
To cross me. But, by heaven, and earth, and hell,
Dearly shall he abide his insolence!
If the earth hold him, soon shall he be found;
Die like a dog; and leave to dogs his bones!''

By the black demon of revenge possessed,
Body and soul--thus speaking, to and fro,
Fiercely he strode. ``What ho''--again he cried,
And Tartan entered: ``Send forth instantly,
From out the Phrygian gate, five hundred horse.
The traitor Dara hath my daughter stolen.
To him that brings them back, the king will give
A thousand golden talents. Question not,
But do my bidding. Priest, retire thou too;
And tell whate'er thou know'st. Bid them be quick,
And subtle in the search. Remember well,--
A thousand golden talents. If they fail,
Let them beware.'' Again alone, the king
Grimly sat, vengeance brooding. All the strength
Of madness came upon him. With clenched hands,
Contracted brow, pressed lips, and burning eye,
In fancy drinking deep revenge, he sat.
His daughter to a dungeon should be cast;
Dara to wolves and wild dogs be the prey:
The queen herself, if, as he 'gan forebode,
She had given sanction,--even she should die;
Ay, by his own avenging arm should die!

Fired by the thought that vengeance to his hand
Might even now be ready,--franticly,
Grasping the dagger hard, he started up;
And toward the chamber of his hapless wife,
Like madman flew. Each nerve within him seemed
As iron strong: his eyes, like coals of fire,
Glared hotly: as a toad with venom swelled,
Upheaved his chest: like maniac in his fit,
He foamed, and ground his teeth. Announcing not
His purposed coming, from the outer room
He drove the affrighted women: entered next
The chamber of the queen;--furiously thence
The attendant matrons chased,--the silver bolt
Shot in the staple; cast a look around,
To make assurance that no loiterer stayed;
Then, on the couch where lay his dying wife,
Turned his ferocious eyes, and toward her strode.

As though a demon had his soul possessed,
Seemed his whole nature changed. No husband now,
No king, no father was he: what remained,
Was but a thwarted tyrant, mad to avenge;
A ravenous beast, from whom is snatched his prey.

He neared the couch: the all--unconscious queen,
With vacant eye beheld, but knew him not.
While yet he gazed, she started, and sat up:
Her thoughts had to the thick of battle flown:
Lifting her arm, with quivering voice she cried,--
``See--see--they fly, they fly! the day is ours
Pursue, pursue! shout victory! victory!''

The king looked on; and, for a moment, felt
Compassionate, and shamed. But, suddenly,
She ceased:--turned pale; and, with a trembling lip,
Fearfully whispered--``Quick! the chariot waits:
Speed, or the priest may come. Nay, loose thy arms:
One kiss; then haste away. Fear not, fear not;
This trouble past, we all shall meet again.
Thy father loves thee: he hath been deceived:
He'll joy to know thee saved; and the vile priest
Shall feel his vengeance. Bless thee, oh my child!
Heaven bless, and shield thee! We shall meet again!''
She ceased; and, sighing heavily, sank back.

``Thou hast betrayed thy treason, and shalt die,
Accursëd woman!'' said the vengeful king,
And raised the gleaming blade. ``Thou, then, hast leagued
With a base traitor, with a robber vile,
To cross me in my purpose. Is the king
So tame a puppet then, that his own wife,
His trusted servant, may together join
To mock at his behest? But ye shall know
Whom 'tis ye sport with: and, if once again
To oppose his will, the power remain to you,--
His be the fault, who spared you. But no more
Shall ye be trusted: with your blood alone
Can the black crime be cleansed: and die shall both!''

He paused; and, holding high the murderous blade,
Her answer waited. Not a word she spake:
Her lids were closed; her breath was hot and quick;
Her fingers o'er the silken coverlet
Strayed feebly, as if trying thence to pluck
The golden threads. He saw she heard him not.
``Gods! this is dreadful! She is passing now!''
Shuddering, he said; and slowly sheathed the blade:
``To strike her thus were murder! If she live,
Still must she answer it: if now she die,
Her guilt dies with her. On his burning brow

Both trembling hands he pressed: with starting eyes,
Glared once again upon the dying queen:
Fled from the chamber; loudly called for wine,
To drown his senses in oblivion;
And, till deep midnight, all alone remained,
In a hot gloom, intoxicate, and fierce,
Yet darkly melancholy. Now, his hands
Strongly he clenched, as though on vengeance bent;
Now, with hot tears fast rolling down his cheeks,
Sobbed, as his heart would burst. He called, at length;
And a veiled woman entered, and knelt down
Before him, pressing with both palms her face.
``How now?'' demanded he, surprised, and vexed;
``What would'st thou have? Yet answer not; but go;
And let the leech come hither.'' ``Most dread lord!''
After short pause, the trembling dame replied;
``The good physician, overworn, and sick,
Hath to his home returned.'' ``What? How? Returned?''
With look and tone indignant, he exclaimed;
``Gone home? Presumptuous! How then fares the queen?''

A silent moment: with a gush of tears,
Came the sad answer: ``Most dread lord of lords,
She hath departed!'' Not a word spake he;
But, as by palsy stricken, backward sank.
All was deep silence, save the smothered sobs
Of that afflicted woman. By a sign,
He gave at last the word,--and was alone.

Alone! he felt himself indeed alone!
The stillness of the sepulchre was round.
Death, as in bodily presence, seemed to rule
Sole monarch there. His wisest counsellor,
His truest friend,--his bravest soldier, first,
A cold clod lay; and now his queen, his wife,--
Oh heavens! that glory of all things create!
That god--like soul, in shape celestial clad!
That wonder of all eyes! that bower--down
Of every spirit! she too, like a cloud,
A gorgeous cloud of summer's setting sun,
Had fled; and left in utter night the earth!

So ran his thoughts, repentant all too late.
Fixed, silent, sat he. Pallid was his face,
Care--marked, yea agëd. Upon vacancy,
With wide dilated eyes of gloomy fire,
Sternly he gazed. That look said, ``all is lost!''

Uttering, at length, one shrill, heart--tortured cry,
He started up,--clenched his sharp--quivering hands,--
Tore from the roots his hair,--his garments rent,--
And, flinging up his arms, called on the gods
For death to free him from his misery.

Soon, at the brimming cup, as though in pangs
Of thirst expiring, eagerly he caught;
Drained it, and filled anew, and drank again:
Then, muffling up his face, upon the couch
Heavily sank; in apoplectic sleep,
Drowning, at length, his woe. Three days, and nights,
With draughts intemperate, and life--numbing sleep,
Strove he his pangs to dull: nor, all that time,
Food tasted; nor with man, or woman, spake.
His brain toward madness verged: he raved; he cursed
He wept; he vowed revenge. By the third night,
The slain were buried. In their quiet tombs,
The queen, and her loved brother also slept.
None to the king dared say, ``The graves are made;
The ashes of thy queen, and brother, wait
The funeral rites.'' So to the tomb they went,
By myriads wept: yet he who most had lost,
Knew not when they were taken from his sight,--
Ne'er to be seen again! On the seventh morn,
Came the pursuers back; and to the king,--
So ordered,--brought report. ``Dread lord of lords!
Six days of toil, six nights of scanty rest,
Have we endured: our strength is worn away:
Our steeds have died with very weariness:
Yet tidings of thy daughter have we none.''

That hearing, in the tyrant fiercest rage
Flamed demon--like. Upstarting--hurling down
The crystal cup that trembled in his hand,
``Slaves! ye shall die the death!'' he shrieked; ``ye lie!
Ye have not sought my daughter! Ye are leagued,
Hellishly leagued, to thwart me, and deceive.
Hence with you, traitors! Tartan, if thou, too,
A rebel art not, see that every head,
Ere noon, be stricken off. Away--away--
I will not hear. Look that my will be done.--
Yet send again,--a thousand fleetest steeds;
And let them search to the uttermost ends of earth:
Yea! wear out life ere, baffled, they come back!''

Tartan, all horror struck, retired: but soon
Returning, on his knees before the king
Fell down; and with such passionate vehemence
Implored, that, powerless to resist his prayer,
The tyrant softened, and their pardon spake.
Yet still, quick vengeance craving; hoping still
A victim might be found, acceptable
To heaven, and him, he for the wizard called;
And Barak came before him. ``Know'st thou not,''
The king began, ``some way the gods to soothe?
Is there no other, who the place may fill
Of her I name not? By no act of mine
That offering was refused; then most unjust
That heaven on me should visit the offence.
Answer me, priest, and briefly; for my soul
Thirsteth some deed to do, that may wipe out
This ignominy. Had that wretch accursed,
Who stole my child . . . . . But even yet, perchance,
May he be found; swift feet are on his track.
If other way thou seest, the gods to move,
At once outspeak it.'' Gloomily the priest
Made answer. ``Justly are the heavens incensed;
And with yet heavier doom do threaten thee.
But, in the place of her whom they did choose,
Think not that he, or any mortal else,
Could, singly, find acceptance.'' ``For that one,
Take thou a hundred, then,'' roared out the king:
``Surely with that their blood--thirst may be slaked!
Ha! I bethink me: justice long hath slept,
But wakens now;--the hundred treacherous Medes,
That should before have died,--them take; and try
If all together may not, for that one,
Accepted be. To--morrow, at high noon,
See that they die,--die all. Within the square
Of Jupiter,--even at the statue's base,--
Shall be the sacrifice: so may the gods
Well pleased look down, and bless the offering.
Go, and proclaim it through the city then,
That all the multitude may gather there,
And see my power. Still am I king of kings;
And at my anger all the earth shall quake.
Speed to Sennacherib: with foot, and horse,
A thousand strong, bid him to give thee aid;
And guard the victims. Summon also thou
A hundred priests,--for every man a priest;
And, in the self--same moment, let all die.
Away,--and answer not; but see it done.''

Astonished looked the seer, as thus he heard;
But bowed, and took his way. Still furiously
The king his chamber paced; for, in his soul,
A fire there was which nought but blood could quench.
His queen, his brother, now were all forgot.
The utter overthrow of that last field
Nought troubled him: nor of impending fate
Thought he: nor for his daughter did he mourn.
He had been crossed: his will omnipotent
Had been defied. The child whom he had loved,
The man whom he had honored, had conjoined
To baffle him: and, when he launched the bolt
That should o'erwhelm them, lo! it came again
Innocuous to his hand! And still they lived;
Still in their cunning triumphed; still defied
His power almighty; and still vengeance seemed
Distant, nay doubtful. ``Is the king of kings
Thus to be mocked? Blood, blood,'' he cried, ``my soul
Thirsteth for blood, and shall be satisfied!''
So, like a tiger in the toils, raged he,
Unceasingly; and no man dared approach.

But, when the sacrifice had been proclaimed,
Fear came upon the people; and they said,
``If this thing be, surely the enemy
Will like consuming fire against us burn!
And, if the city should before them fall,
Will put to death all things that therein are;
Warrior, and gray--haired man, woman, and child,
And leave no tongue to tell the history!''

Thus through the city ran complaint, and dread;
Yet no man dared resist; for, as a god,
The king was feared, and worshipped. When he heard
The harsh command, Sennacherib was sad,
And sorely troubled: and, when he beheld
The looks of all men downcast; and their speech
Complaining heard,--he feared for what might come.
Then to the king he went, and, kneeling down,
``Oh! lord of lords!'' imploringly he said,
``Have mercy, oh have mercy! Every eye
Drops tears; and every heart with grief, and dread,
Is faint, and troubled. To thy people's voice
Oh listen! They beseech thee, to recall
The awful doom, and let the captives go.
`Their death may nought avail us'--do they cry,
`And surely, if this evil thing be done,
With rage unutterable will the foe
Against us burn; and leave unslain no man,
Woman, or child, that in the city dwells:
So, for this hundred sacrificed, shall die
Myriads on myriads.' Mighty lord, oh hear,
And grant thy people's prayer.'' To him the king,
With flashing eye, haughty and threatening brow,
Sternly thus spake: ``A warrior good art thou;
And, therefore, to thy words, though overbold,
With patience have I listened. Hear me now.
Fixed as yon heaven above, this earth beneath,
Stand I immoveable: they all shall die!
Harass me more, and, by the eternal gods!
Five hundred, for this one, shall die the death!
Thou hast thine answer: go, and make it known,
Whoso again shall dare the king to move
From his fixed purpose, his own doom will speak.''

Shuddering, Sennacherib heard; bowed low, and went.
All which the king had spoken,--to the chiefs,
The priests, the lords, and rulers, he made known.

From man to man, throughout the city, soon
The tidings spread; and great was the dismay,
And deep the murmuring: yet all obeyed.
The altar--stones, the fuel for the fires,
Stood ready: and, while yet four hours of noon
Were wanting,--a strong guard, of foot, and horse,
Circled the place of sacrifice. Unawed
By the king's stern command; resolved to brave
The death he threatened,--yet with beating heart,
Blanched face, and trembling limbs,--Azubah went;
Fell prostrate at his feet,--and, bathed in tears,
With sobs convulsed, conjured him, by all things
Holy, and just, and great, that sacrifice
Appalling to forbid. Impatiently
His hand he waved, while in a passion--flood
Of eloquence she poured forth all her soul:
And still, at intervals, he said, ``vain,--vain,--
Speak not--thy words are vain.'' Yet still she sued;
And still, his anger gathering more and more,
With sharper word he answered. To her knees
She rose at length, and looked him in the face.
As lightning through the rain, from her drenched eyes
Flashed living fire, and trembling, thus she spake.
``If this abominable crime thou do,
Thy name, O king, will, throughout all the earth,
Become a loathing, and a hiss'' . . . Stark mad,
Sprang up the tyrant,--thrust her to the floor;
And, with a voice harsh as a tiger's growl,
``Curs'd woman! get thee from my sight!'' he cried,
``Else slaves shall drag thee forth, and spit on thee.
Too happy if, for thy great insolence,
Thou also die not. But beware! beware!''

Slowly Azubah rose: her face was pale,
But not with terror: from that beauteous brow,
That eye, that eloquent lip, where love had dwelt
As in his home,--came silently, but plain
As if by clear--voiced herald spoken out,
``Proud, miserable man! thy reign is o'er!
Unworthy as thou art, through good, and ill,
My soul hath cleaved to thee: it loathes thee now!
No heart can love thee more. For aye, farewell!''

So spake that loving woman's parting look;
But word she uttered none. Straightway she went;
The city quitted; to the Median camp,
Alone, and weeping, sped: her father sought;
Fell down before him; told the dreadful tale
Of that most horrid sacrifice to come;
Prayed that with him, thenceforth, for evermore,
She might abide; and, as his child, again
Be loved, and cherished; while, to him, might she
A comfort, and a solace yet become;
A staff to his old age. Rabsaris heard;
His heart was melted, and he blessëd her.
Yet, with those fearful tidings overcharged,
He tarried not, but to Arbaces' tent
Ran eagerly. Already known, he found
The direful tale: for, when Sennacherib,
Returning, told how bloody were the thoughts
Of the infuriate king,--Nebaioth then,
And Jerimoth, with anger filled, and shame,
Counsel had taken, how that horrid act
They might avert. ``Let us send privily,
And warn Arbaces,'' said they; ``haply he
Some way to turn the headstrong king may find.''

Two brave and trusty men instructing then,
In secrecy at once they sent them forth:
And when Rabsaris, out of breath with haste,
Burst in the tent, he found the Assyrians there,
Their message ending. When they ceased to speak
Arbaces answered not; but, instantly,
Two heralds summoned: bade them, with all speed,
A chariot mount; into the city fly;
And, standing in the presence of the king,
Say out aloud: ``Sardanapalus, thus
Arbaces, leader of the Median host,
Doth greet thee. `Of a surety do we know
That thou, this day, a bloody sacrifice
Dost purpose; yea, wilt offer to thy gods
The hundred Median captives. But, beware,--
For, if this most abominable thing
Thou do commit,--destruction infinite
Shall come upon thee: thou shalt die the death;
The death of murderer die. Have we not, too,
Captives, by myriads, who, for this blood shed,
A thousand fold might pay? Bethink thee, then,
And, ere too late, repent.''' The heralds bowed,
And hasted on their way. Before the king
Erelong they stood; and faithfully, and well,
Their message told. Then nigh to madness rose
The despot's fury. ``Execrable dogs!''
Upstarting from his throne, he bellowed out;
``Give rebels, then, the law unto their king?
His will alone is law; and, what he wills,
That surely shall he do, though all the earth
Rise to oppose him. Tell your insolent chief,
As well might he the almighty thunderer
Hope, with his puny threats, to make come down
From his heaven--throne, as me to turn aside
From my fixed purpose. Surely as the sun
Shall to his noon--point climb, so surely they,
The treacherous Medes, upon the altar--stones,
Shall die beneath the knife of sacrifice!
And ye, foul--mouthed, who this audacious threat,
Audaciously have spoken,--ye shall stay,
And witness at what price Assyria's king
Doth rate the threatener.'' To his servants then;
``Hence with these barking curs: put on them chains;
And drag them to the place of sacrifice.
There, close beside the victims let them stand,
That they may well behold; and witness bear
To him that sent them. If they dare resist;
Or, in opposal, open but the mouth;
Scourge them to death. When all the rites are o'er,
Strip off their robes; and from the city gates,
With hoots and hisses, drive them. So may they
Tell to their masters, how Assyria's king
Doth tremble at their anger.'' In reply
The heralds 'gan to speak; but, on the mouth
Harshly were smitten, and dragged headlong forth.

'Twas nigh the hour of noon: the spacious square
With silent, anxious multitudes was thronged,--
A sea of pallid faces, and bright eyes,
Tremblingly waiting. On the pedestal
That bore the giant statue of the god,
With arms enfolded in his sable robes,
Stood Barak; from that height o'erlooking all,
And all directing. In a circle rose
The hundred altar--stones; at each a priest,
Silently waiting, and a victim bound.
Loaded with chains, the heralds of the Mede,
On lofty seats, conspicuous to all eyes,
Sat pale, and shuddering: but, at their distress,
No man could mock; for every heart was sad,
And ominous of ill. One sound alone,
At times, was heard,--the low and stifled cry
Of some poor victim; as of wife, or sire,
Daughter, or son, or mother, never more
To be beheld, the torturing thought arose.

The air was thick, and sultry; no wind stirred:
With ponderous clouds of inky hue, the sky
Closely was covered: at wide intervals,
Came down a solitary drop of rain,
Weighty and broad; as though from out their heaven
The pitying gods dropped tears. The fatal hour
At length was come. Barak the signal gave:
And a hoarse, melancholy trumpet--blast
Proclaimed the opening rites. Down on their knees
Sank then the multitude; while toward the sky,
With hands uplifted, Barak turned his face;
And, with a voice so loud that, 'mid the hush
Intense, by thousands was it clearly heard,
In words like these began. ``Immortal gods!
Who, with a wisdom that can never err;
With justice that can never prosper wrong;
And with a might omnipotent, do rule
In heaven, and earth, the living, and the dead,--
Hear us, oh hear! If, for the people's sins,
And for the sins of him who on the throne,
Your great vicegerent, sits, ye have shot down
The arrows of your vengeance,--hear our prayer!
Be now propitiate, and in mercy turn
Your face of wrath away! To all the earth,
Was once this mighty city as a sun,--
So dazzling in her glory and her power.
Kings bowed before her: the far distant lands
Sent tribute; and implored to wear her bonds,
Proud of submission. The eternal hills,
Not more eternal, nor more deeply fixed
On their broad adamantine base appeared,
Than once this great and glorious Nineveh!
But ye have frowned upon her: ye have cast
Shadows of night about her: ye have sent
Armies of terrible men, who hem her round;
Scatter, and slay, her soldiers; threat aloud
That they will burn her towers, and palaces;
Her walls will overthrow; will put to death
All that therein do dwell; and make of her
A desert, and a howling wilderness!
But, in your might alone, immortal gods,
Our foes are strong: and, if ye hold aloof,
And aid them not, again will they be weak,
And fly before us. Hearken to us then.
For our own sins, and for the king's offence,
Humbly do we implore forgiveness now:
And, to appease your wrath, do offer up,
In place of that one victim, whom ye chose,
The hundred now before you. May the steam
Of this great sacrifice, your wrath appease;
And over all the land your blessings bring!''

He ceased; the signal gave; and instantly
That melancholy trumpet breathed again
Its strange blood--freezing blast. At once uprose
The trembling multitude: the gleaming knives
At once were bared. Throughout the crowded square
Ran hiss of quick--drawn breath: all hearts throbbed loud;
All ears were opened; strained was every eye
To catch the signal. Drearily, at length,
Wailed out the death--blast! Wild shrieks rent the air.
In the same moment, dread as lightning, gleamed
The falling blades. The horrid rites were done!

A grave--like stillness held the shuddering throng:
Awhile none moved, or breathed: as in a dream,
Hearing the hideous chorus of deep groans,
Horror--transfixed, they stood. But other sounds,
Appalling, followed. As though earth would speak
Her curse on that great wickedness,--there came
From her deep chambers hollow murmurings;
And angry tremblings shook her mighty heart.
The black gigantic statue of the god
Rocked visibly; and they who near it were,
And overwhelm them. Barak, only, stood,
Fearless, and firm; and, when the earth was still;
And the awe--stricken multitude was hushed;
His strong voice lifted up undauntedly,
And cried, ``Ye foolish men, why fear ye thus,
When ye should triumph, and be glad at heart!
Know ye not, then, the omen? Earth's great voice
Speaks her acceptance of the sacrifice:
The statue of the deity doth nod
Approval, for all heaven. Lift then on high
Your voices, every man, and peal the hymn
Of praise, and thanks, to Bel omnipotent,
To earth, and all the starry host of heaven.''

Ceasing to speak, unto the priests he signed,
And to the people; then, with powerful voice,
Himself began the song. With him, at once,
Choired in the priests: soon, of the multitude,
Sang thousands also: and, as stronger grew
Their courage, and their hearts with music warmed,
Still thousands more joined in; till rose, at length,
A mighty flood of sound harmonious,
That filled heaven's concave. But at once it closed:
In one wild shriek of fear unutterable,
Was swallowed up; and in a burst so loud
Of thunder, that the city to its base
Was shaken: for a glaring ball of fire,
Broad as the disk of the full moon, shot down:
Right on the statue's head, with iron clang,
Smote crashing; burst--and, in a hissing shower
Of shivered lightning, quivered, and expired.

All eyes were darkened; deafened were all ears.
In heaps down sank the terror--stricken crowd,
Covering their faces. When the roar had ceased,
And they 'gan rise, and dimly look about,
Lo! on the earth the giant statue lay,
Shattered, and scorched to blackness! As if dead,
Upon the pedestal, with limbs outstretched,
Lay Barak: but, in little time, he stirred;
Looked round; upon his elbow raised himself;
Then stood upon his feet; and, lifting up
His hands unto the people, spake aloud.

But none regarded him; nor aught could hear,--
So loud the wailings, and despairing cries,
Of that awe--stricken multitude. ``Alas!
Alas!'' they cried, ``the gods are wroth with us,
For this most bloody deed. The solid earth
Shakes in her anger; and the vengeful heaven
Hurls down its terrible fire! Away, away!
Fly to your homes, ye men of Nineveh;
Leave this abhorrëd place! lift up your hands,
At your own altars, and pray ceaselessly,
That on the guilty heads alone may fall
The wrath of heaven; and that the fearful doom,
Which hangs o'er this devoted city now,
May be recalled; and, for the wicked few,
The myriads may not utterly be lost!''

With words like these, cried man to man; while all,
Of evil darkly pondering, fled the spot,
With loathing, and with horror: to their homes
Hastily speeding, told the fearful tale:
With parents, wives and children, kneeling then,
Called on the gods to pardon, and to turn
Their face of wrath aside; and pour not out
On that unhappy land the cup of woe.

Through all the city was the voice of grief
And lamentation heard: for every man
Became a prophet; and the coming fall
Of once earth--ruling Nineveh foretold.