Feel they some partial pang, some secret void, Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again?
Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight To reproduce in hour of bitterness?
She goes, the king awaits her from the camp: Him she descried, and trembled ere he reached Her car, but shuddered paler at his voice.
So the pale silver at the festive board Grows paler filled afresh and dewed with wine; So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring To whiten, bending from a balmy gale.
The beauteous queen alighting he received, And sighed to loose her from his arms; she hung A little longer on them through her fears: Her maidens followed her, and one that watched, One that had called her in the morn, observed How virgin pa.s.sion with unfueled flame Burns into whiteness, while the blushing cheek Imagination heats and Shame imbues.
Between both nations drawn in ranks they pa.s.s: The priests, with linen ephods, linen robes, Attend their steps, some follow, some precede, Where clothed with purple intertwined with gold Two lofty thrones commanded land and main.
Behind and near them numerous were the tents As freckled clouds o"erfloat our vernal skies, Numerous as wander in warm moonlight nights, Along Meander"s or Cayster"s marsh, Swans pliant-necked and village storks revered.
Throughout each nation moved the hum confused, Like that from myriad wings o"er Scythian cups Of frothy milk, concreted soon with blood.
Throughout the fields the savoury smoke ascends, And boughs and branches shade the hides unbroached.
Some roll the flowery turf into a seat, And others press the helmet--now resounds The signal--queen and monarch mount the thrones.
The brazen clarion hoa.r.s.ens: many leagues Above them, many to the south, the heron Rising with hurried croak and throat outstretched, Ploughs up the silvering surface of her plain.
Tottering with age"s zeal and mischief"s haste Now was discovered Dalica; she reached The throne, she leant against the pedestal, And now ascending stood before the king.
Prayers for his health and safety she preferred, And o"er his head and o"er his feet she threw Myrrh, nard, and ca.s.sia, from three golden urns; His robe of native woof she next removed, And round his shoulders drew the garb accursed, And bowed her head and parted: soon the queen Saw the blood mantle in his manly cheeks, And feared, and faltering sought her lost replies, And blessed the silence that she wished were broke.
Alas! unconscious maiden! night shall close, And love and sovereignty and life dissolve, And Egypt be one desert drenched in blood.
When thunder overhangs the fountain"s head, Losing its wonted freshness every stream Grows turbid, grows with sickly warmth suffused: Thus were the brave Iberians when they saw The king of nations from his throne descend.
Scarcely, with pace uneven, knees unnerved, Reached he the waters: in his troubled ear They sounded murmuring drearily; they rose Wild, in strange colours, to his parching eyes; They seemed to rush around him, seemed to lift From the receding earth his helpless feet.
He fell--Charoba shrieked aloud--she ran-- Frantic with fears and fondness, mazed with woe, Nothing but Gebir dying she beheld.
The turban that betrayed its golden charge Within, the veil that down her shoulders hung, All fallen at her feet! the furthest wave Creeping with silent progress up the sand, Glided through all, and raised their hollow folds.
In vain they bore him to the sea, in vain Rubbed they his temples with the briny warmth: He struggled from them, strong with agony, He rose half up, he fell again, he cried "Charoba! O Charoba!" She embraced His neck, and raising on her knee one arm, Sighed when it moved not, when it fell she shrieked, And clasping loud both hands above her head, She called on Gebir, called on earth, on heaven.
"Who will believe me? what shall I protest?
How innocent, thus wretched! G.o.d of G.o.ds, Strike me--who most offend thee most defy-- Charoba most offends thee--strike me, hurl From this accursed land, this faithless throne.
O Dalica! see here the royal feast!
See here the gorgeous robe! you little thought How have the demons dyed that robe with death.
Where are ye, dear fond parents! when ye heard My feet in childhood pat the palace-floor, Ye started forth and kissed away surprise: Will ye now meet me! how, and where, and when?
And must I fill your bosom with my tears, And, what I never have done, with your own!
Why have the G.o.ds thus punished me? what harm Have ever I done them? have I profaned Their temples, asked too little, or too much?
Proud if they granted, grieved if they withheld?
O mother! stand between your child and them!
Appease them, soothe them, soften their revenge, Melt them to pity with maternal tears-- Alas, but if you cannot! they themselves Will then want pity rather than your child.
O Gebir! best of monarchs, best of men, What realm hath ever thy firm even hand Or lost by feebleness or held by force!
Behold thy cares and perils how repaid!
Behold the festive day, the nuptial hour!"
Thus raved Charoba: horror, grief, amaze, Pervaded all the host; all eyes were fixed; All stricken motionless and mute: the feast Was like the feast of Cepheus, when the sword Of Phineus, white with wonder, shook restrained, And the hilt rattled in his marble hand.
She heard not, saw not, every sense was gone; One pa.s.sion banished all; dominion, praise, The world itself was nothing. Senseless man!
What would thy fancy figure now from worlds?
There is no world to those that grieve and love.
She hung upon his bosom, pressed his lips, Breathed, and would feign it his that she resorbed; She chafed the feathery softness of his veins, That swelled out black, like tendrils round their vase After libation: lo! he moves! he groans!
He seems to struggle from the grasp of death.
Charoba shrieked and fell away, her hand Still clasping his, a sudden blush o"erspread Her pallid humid cheek, and disappeared.
"Twas not the blush of shame--what shame has woe? - "Twas not the genuine ray of hope, it flashed With shuddering glimmer through unscattered clouds, It flashed from pa.s.sions rapidly opposed.
Never so eager, when the world was waves, Stood the less daughter of the ark, and tried (Innocent this temptation!) to recall With folded vest and casting arm the dove; Never so fearful, when amid the vines Rattled the hail, and when the light of heaven Closed, since the wreck of Nature, first eclipsed, As she was eager for his life"s return, As she was fearful how his groans might end.
They ended: cold and languid calm succeeds; His eyes have lost their l.u.s.tre, but his voice Is not unheard, though short: he spake these words: "And weepest thou, Charoba! shedding tears More precious than the jewels that surround The neck of kings entombed! then weep, fair queen, At once thy pity and my pangs a.s.suage.
Ah! what is grandeur, glory--they are past!
When nothing else, not life itself, remains, Still the fond mourner may be called our own.
Should I complain of Fortune? how she errs, Scattering her bounty upon barren ground, Slow to allay the lingering thirst of toil?
Fortune, "tis true, may err, may hesitate, Death follows close nor hesitates nor errs.
I feel the stroke! I die!" He would extend His dying arm; it fell upon his breast: Cold sweat and shivering ran o"er every limb, His eyes grew stiff, he struggled and expired.
Footnote:
{1} "Ah, what avails the sceptred race, Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
"Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee."