Classic Poem

Glad as the weary traveller tempest tost
To reach secure at length his native coast,
Who wandering long o'er distant lands hath sped,
The night-blast wildly howling round his head,
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm
Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form;
The journey o'er and every peril past
Beholds his little cottage-home at last,
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow,
Feels his full eyes with transport overflow;
So from the scene where Death and Misery reign,
And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain,
Joyful I turn; to sing how Woman's praise
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the nation best beloved of God.

Darius gives the feast; to Persia's court,
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort:
Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride,
And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror side.
No more the warrior wears the garb of war,
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car
No more Judaea's sons dejected go,
And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe.
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train,
From where Orontes foams along the plain,
From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves,
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves.
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery yes
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair,
They tinge the cheek which nature form'd so fair
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance,
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance.
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne,
In royal state the fair Apame shone;
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire,
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire;
The admiring multitude her charms adore,
And own her worthy of the rank she bore.

Now on his couch reclined Darius lay,
Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day;
Without Judaea's watchful sons await,
To guard the sleeping idol of the state.
Three youths were these of Judah's royal race,
Three youths whom Nature dower'd with ever grace,
To each the form of symmetry she gave,
And haughty genius cursed each favorite slave;
These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept,
Served when he spake, and guarded while he slept

Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low
The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would flow;
And when the dull and wearying round of power
Allow'd Zorobabel one vacant hour,
He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam,
And lingering gaze toward his distant home,
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined
Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind.

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide the light
And social converse cheers the livelong night,
Thus spake Zorobabel: " Too long in vain
For Zion desolate her sons complain;
All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow,
And these proud heathen mock their captives'
While Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate;
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise,
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise.
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes,
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies,
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again.

" Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign,
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain.
Now when Darius, chief of mild command,
Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land,
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief,
And sternly silent shun to seek relief?
What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng
Our harps should echo to the cheerful song? "

" Fair is the occasion, " thus the one replied;
" Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried.
And while the courtiers quaff the smiling bowl,
And wine's strong fumes inspire the gladden'd soul,
Where all around is merriment, be mine
To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine. "

" And while, " his friend rejoin'd, " in state alone,
Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne,
Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing,
My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King. "

To them Zorobabel: " On themes like these
Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please;
To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms,
Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms.
To him victorious in the rival lays
Shall just Darius give the meed of praise;
A purple robe his honor'd frame shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold;
A golden couch support his bed of rest,
The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast;
His the rich turban, his the car's array,
On Babylon's high wall to wheel its way;
And for his wisdom seated on the throne,
For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be known. "

Intent they meditate the future lay,
And watch impatient for the dawn of day.
The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute,
The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute;
To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort,
Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court.
High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride,
The fair Apame graced her Sovereign's side:
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown
Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown.
In transport o'er her faultless form he bends,
Loves every look, and every act commends.

And now Darius bids the herald call
Judaea's Bards to grace the thronging hall.
Hush'd are all sounds, the attending crowd are mute,
And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute:

When the Traveller on his way,
Who has toil'd the livelong day,
Feels around on every side
The chilly mists of eventide,
Fatigued and faint his weary mind
Recurs to all he leaves behind;
He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth,
The evening hour of social mirth,
And her who at departing day
Weeps for her husband far away.
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul!
Then shall sorrow sink to sleep,
And he who wept no more shall weep;
For his care-clouded brow shall clear,
And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear.

When the poor man heart-opprest
Betakes him to his evening rest,
And worn with labor thinks in sorrow
On the labor of to-morrow;
When repining at his lot
He hies him to his joyless cot,
And loathes to meet his children there,
The rivals for his scanty fare;
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul!
The generous juice with magic power
Shall cheat with happiness the hour,
And with each warm affection fill
The heart by want and wretchedness made chill

When, at the dim close of day,
The Captive loves alone to stray
Along the haunts recluse and rude
Of sorrow and of solitude;
When he sits with mournful eye
To mark the lingering radiance die,
And lets distempered fancy roam
Amid the ruins of his home; —
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it renovate his soul!
The bowl shall better thoughts bestow,
And lull to rest his wakeful woe,
And joy shall gild the evening hour,
And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror.

When the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight,
When from his pomp retired alone
He feels the duties of the throne,
Feels that the multitude below
Depend on him for weal or woe;
When his powerful will may bless
A realm with peace and happiness,
Or with desolating breath
Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death;
Oh give to him the flowing bowl!
Bid it humanize his soul!
He shall not feel the empire's weight;
He shall not feel the cares of state;
The bowl shall each dark thought beguile,
And Nations live and prosper from his smile.

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song,
Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng;
All tongues the liberal words of praise repaid,
On every cheek a smile applauding play'd;
The rival Bard approach'd, he struck the string,
And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King.
Why should the wearying cares of state
Oppress the Monarch with their weight?
Alike to him if peace shall bless
The multitude with happiness;
Alike to him if frenzied War
Career triumphant on the embattled plain,
And rolling on o'er myriads slain,
With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car.
What though the tempest rage? no sound
Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne;
And the red flash that spreads destruction round
Reflects a glorious splendor on the crown.
Where is the Man who with ennobling pride
Regards not his own nature? where is he
Who without awe can see
The mysteries of the human mind,
The miniature of Deity?
For Man the vernal clouds descending
Shower down their fertilizing rain;
For Man the ripen'd harvest bending
Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain.
He spreads the sail to catch the favoring gale,
Or sweeps with oars the main;
For him the winds of heaven subservient blow,
Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow,
He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below!
Where is the King who with elating pride
Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave?
Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side;
Alike the wise, alike the brave
With timid step and pale, advance,
And tremble at the royal glance;
Suspended millions watch his breath,
Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death.
Why goes the Peasant from the little cot,
Where Peace and Love have blest his humble life?
In vain his wretched wife
With tears bedews her husband's face,
And clasps him in a long and last embrace;
In vain his children round his bosom creep,
And weep to see their mother weep,
Fettering their father with their little arms!
What are to him the war's alarms?
What are to him the distant foes?
He at the earliest dawn of day
To daily labor went his way,
And when he saw the sun decline,
He sat in peace beneath his vine.
The King commands, the peasant goes,
From all he loved on earth he flies,
And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies.
What though yon city's castled wall
Cast o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade?
What though her Priests in earnest terror call
On all their host of Gods to aid?
Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower!
In vain her gallant youth expose
Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes!
In vain at that tremendous hour,
Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms,
Shrieks to deaf Heaven the violated Maid!
By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round,
Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert ground.
Low shall the mouldering palace lie,
Amid the princely halls the grass wave high,
And through the shatter'd roof descend the clement sky.
Gay o'er the embattled plain
Moves yonder warrior train;
Their banners wanton on the morning gale,
Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray;
Their glittering helms give glory to the day;
The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale.
Far reaches as the aching eye can strain
The splendid horror of their wide array
Ah! not in vain expectant, o'er
Their glorious pomp the vultures soar!
Amid the Conqueror's palace high
Shall sound the song of victory;
Long after journeying o'er the plain
The traveller shall with startled eye
See their white bones then blanched by many a winter sky.
Lord of the earth! we will not raise
The temple to thy bounded praise;
For thee no victim need expire,
For thee no altar blaze with hallow'd fire;
The burning City flames for thee,
Thine Altar is the field of victory!
Thy sacred Majesty to bless
Man a self-offer'd victim freely flies;
To thee he sacrifices happiness,
And peace, and Love's endearing ties;
To thee a Slave he lives, for thee a Slave he die.

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing;
The shout burst forth, " Forever live the King! "
Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree
Pronounced Achaia once again was free;
Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief
Heard the false boon, and bless'd the treacherous Chief
Each breast with freedom's holy ardor glows,
From every voice the cry of rapture rose;
Their thundering clamors rend the astonished sky
And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die.
Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring,
And the high hall reichoed — " Live the King! "
The mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord
The assembled Satraps envied and adored,
Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes,
And his pleased pride already doom'd the prize.

Silent they saw Zorobabel advance:
He to Apame turn'd his timid glance;
With downward eye he paused, a moment mute,
Then with light finger touch'd the softer lute.
Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause,
And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause.

Why is the warrior's cheek so red?
Why downward droops his musing head?
Why that slow step, that faint advance,
That keen yet quick retreating glance?
That crested head in war tower'd high;
No backward glance disgraced that eye,
No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread,
When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead:
Strange tumult now his bosom moves, —
The Warrior fears because he loves.
Why does the Youth delight to rove
Amid the dark and lonely grove?
Why in the throng where all are gay,
With absent eyes from gayety distraught,
Sits he alone in silent thought?
Silent he sits, for far away
His passion'd soul delights to stray;
Recluse he roves as if he fain would shun
All human-kind, because he loves but One!
Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest!
But not because the sparkling bowl
To rapture elevates thy waken'd soul;
But not because of power possest;
Nor that the Nations dread thy nod,
And princes reverence thee their earthly God!
Even on a monarch's solitude
Will Care, dark visitant, intrude;
The bowl brief pleasure can bestow;
The purple cannot shield from woe;
But, King of Persia, thou art blest,
For Heaven who raised thee thus the world above,
Hath made thee happy in Apame's love!

Oh! I have seen him fondly trace
The heavenly features of her face,
Rove o'er her form with eager eye,
And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh.
See! from his brow with mimic frown
Apame takes the sacred crown;
Those sparkling eyes, that radiant face,
Give to the diadem new grace:
And subject to a Woman's laws,
Darius sees, and smiles applause!

He ceased, and silent still remain'd the throng,
While rapt attention own'd the power of song.
Then, loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow,
From every voice the thundering plaudits flow;
Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes
Glanced on the King, and Woman won the prize.

Now silent sate the expectant crowd: Alone
The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne;
With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows,
With statelier stature loftier now he rose;
Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throng,
And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song.

" Ancient of days! Eternal Truth! one hymn,
One holier strain the Bard shall raise to Thee,
Thee Powerful! Thee Benevolent! Thee Just!
Friend! Father! All in all! — The Vine's rich blood,
The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering charms,
These shall we praise alone? — O ye who sit
Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour
The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews,
Whose rains, whose sun, matured the growing fruit.
Creator and Preserver! — Reverence Him,
O Thou who from thy throne dispensest life
And death, for He hath delegated power,
And thou shalt one day at the throne of God
Render thy strict account! — And ye who gaze
Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form,
Gaze on with love; and loving beauty, learn
To shun abhorrent all the mental eye
Beholds deform'd and foul; for so shall Love
Climb to the source of goodness. God of Truth!
All Just! All Mighty! I should ill deserve
Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song,
If, so content with ear-deep melodies
To please all-profitless, I did not pour
Severer strains, — of Truth — eternal Truth,
Unchanging Justice, universal Love.
Such strains awake the Soul to loftiest thoughts;
Such strains the blessed Spirits of the Good
Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven. "

The dying notes still murmur'd on the string,
When from his throne arose the raptured King.
About to speak he stood, and waved his hand,
And all expectant sate the obedient band.

Then just and generous, thus the Monarch cries,
" Be thine, Zorobabel, the well-earn'd prize.
The purple robe of state thy form shall fold,
The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold,
The golden couch, the car, and honor'd chain,
Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain,
And raised supreme the ennobled race among,
Be call'd My Cousin for the victor song.
Nor these alone the victor song shall bless;
Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt possess. "

" Fallen is Jerusalem! " the Hebrew cries,
And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes,
" Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod,
Polluted lies the temple of our God;
Far in a foreign land her sons remain,
Hear the keen taunt, and drag the galling chain;
In fruitless woe they wear the weary years,
And steep the bread of bitterness in tears.
O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men,
Restore us to those ruin'd walls again
Allow us to rebuild that sacred dome,
To live in liberty, and die at Home. "

So spake Zorobabel. — Thus Woman's praise
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise,
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod,
And freed the Nation best beloved of God.