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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
BUT where the forky lightning fiercest plays, | |
| What shadowy columns meet the straining gaze? | |
| Now wrapped in gloom, and now in light they stand, | |
| As swift between them darts the fiery brand. | |
| It seems as Ruin, revelling in high mirth | 5 |
| O’er fallen things, the beautiful of earth, | |
| Led to this spot the demons of the storm, | |
| To show and mock each lonely column’s form: | |
| Yet tower they still, though fierce, as now, the skies | |
| Have launched their lightnings countless centuries, | 10 |
| Gazing upon the mountains, and on heaven, | |
| As endless years to them were also given, | |
| High raised above that wild and mournful plain, | |
| Where pomp and pageant ne’er must shine again, | |
| But the green turf wraps cities, and the waves | 15 |
| Of winding Kur sweep past a million graves: | |
| Throned on their rock, they look like kings afar, | |
| The columned pride of glorious Chil Minar! | |
| Yes, storms! rage on!—at such an hour as this, | |
| Grand is the scene at dark Persepolis. | 20 |
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| We leave far west the ancient city’s site, | |
| And mount by marble steps the platform’s height; | |
| Here frowns a massive gateway, such as Nile | |
| Sees on his banks, a strange and solemn pile, | |
| And still another lifts its giant head, | 25 |
| The ground between with polished marbles spread. | |
| There figures stand, of earth that scarcely seem, | |
| Like those which filled the Apostle’s wondrous dream, | |
| The bull, the unicorn, and beauteous things, | |
| Angels with starry wreaths, and high-spread wings; | 30 |
| While on each sweeping terrace’ lofty face, | |
| A countless host of human forms ye trace; | |
| Kings, warriors, captives, from the granite start, | |
| But rude the genius, coarse the sculptor’s art. | |
| Here, too, is carved that writing Europe’s sage | 35 |
| Half fails to read in Wisdom’s boasted age. | |
| Strange, mystic, as those words once seen to fall | |
| In spectral light on Babylonia’s wall. * * * * * | |
| Here, too, came one who bartered all for power, | |
| The dread Napoleon of earth’s younger hour; | 40 |
| Ay, the same spot we calmly muse on now | |
| Saw chiefs and kings to Alexander bow; | |
| A conqueror,—yes, men praise and bend the knee, | |
| Who spreads most woe, the greatest hero he. | |
| But lo! that night on fancy casts its gloom, | 45 |
| That fearful night of revelry and doom, | |
| When perished all things costly, bright, and fair, | |
| And left, as now, these pillars stern and bare. | |
| The feast is spread; around the monarch shine | |
| Those earth-born pomps weak mortals deem divine; | 50 |
| High sits he on his throne of gems and gold, | |
| Bright-starred and purple robes his limbs enfold; | |
| No crown adorns his brow, for festive hours | |
| Have wreathed his head with Bacchus’ bloomy flowers; | |
| Lamps, hung in silver chains, a softened glow | 55 |
| Shed on the warrior chiefs that group below. | |
| There prince and noble round the board are met, | |
| Who fought those fights embalmed in history yet; | |
| But thoughts of slaughter past, and blood-stained fields, | |
| Mar not the joys that gorgeous banquet yields; | 60 |
| Sparkles in cups of gold rich Cyprian wine, | |
| Melts the Greek fig, the grapes of Ora shine; | |
| Pears from far Bactria vie with Kerman’s peach, | |
| And fruit from climes e’en Greeks have failed to reach, | |
| Hot Indian Isles, to Scythia’s mountain snows,— | 65 |
| Each luscious orb on plates of crystal glows. | |
| Hark! in the gilded gallery flute and lyre! | |
| Strains soft as sighs of streaming love respire; | |
| Then harp and sackbut bolder notes ring out, | |
| Like victory’s pæan o’er some army’s rout. | 70 |
| And thus they revel; mirth and joy control | |
| The sterner thoughts, the high aspiring soul; | |
| And e’en the slaves, in sumptuous garments dressed, | |
| Forget their toils to see their lords so blessed. | |
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| But what young beauty leans beside the king, | 75 |
| With form so graceful, air so languishing? | |
| While other maids are glittering down that hall, | |
| A moon mid earth’s sweet stars, she dims them all. | |
| Her mask is off, unveiled her radiant head, | |
| A lovelier veil those flower-bound tresses spread; | 80 |
| A spangled zone her Grecian robe confines, | |
| Bright on her breast a costly diamond shines, | |
| But oh, more bright, that eye’s entrancing ray | |
| Melts where it falls, and steals the soul away! | |
| Who looks must look again, and sighing own | 85 |
| Earth boasts, than tyrant Love’s, no mightier throne: | |
| Woman was born to vanquish,—he, the brave, | |
| The nation-trampler, bowed, her veriest slave; | |
| Yes, beauteous Thais, with Love’s flag unfurled, | |
| Conquered the blood-stained conqueror of the world! | 90 |
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