Meantime, Arbaces with his captains sat,
Anxiously waiting. Wherefore came not back
Their heralds, was the wonder: but the truth
No man even guessed at. ''With the king they plead,''
Said some, ''and will not cease till he be moved
To nobler thoughts.'' But others said, ''perchance
The tyrant sleeps; or with his concubines
Taketh his pleasure; and the heralds wait.''
So in conjectures various passed the time;
And restlessly they sat. But, when the earth
Beneath them 'gan to quake; and her great voice
In deep and hollow murmurings to speak,--
Then hastily all rose, and from the tent
Went forth, that they might look abroad, and see
What fearful thing was coming. Black and dense,
The thunder--clouds above the city hung;
But earth again was still; a solemn hush,
As of deep night, was felt. As thus they stood,
Silently gazing,--rose upon the air,
Cloud--like and faint, yet vast, that awful hymn:
Pallid grew every face; and man on man,
Speechless with horror, looked; for well they knew
The bloody deed was done! But when, at length,
That bolt terrific on the city struck;
And that earth--shaking peal of thunder burst;
And, afterward, the piercing shrieks were heard
Of the fear--stricken multitude,--then spake,
With a loud voice, Belesis: ''King accurs'd!
By man and gods accurs'd! thy doom draws nigh!
Earth sickens at thee: the hot bolts of heaven
Are loosed to blast thee; and the sky heaps up
Its clouds to pour upon thee in a flood!
Tyrant, and murderer! here I prophesy:
The mandate is gone forth: thy grave is dug:
Thy sceptre to a worthier hand is given:
And, ere another moon shall wane away,
There, on that spot where stands proud Nineveh,
The great and guilty city,--shall be found
Black, smoking ashes only!'' Having said,
He turned away, and passed into the tent;
And by the most was followed. But, awhile,
Arbaces stood, and toward the city looked,
Pondering what next to do. Resolved, at length,
Two captains, and a trumpeter, with sign
Of parley well displayed, in haste he sent;
Who, at the gate arriving, should demand
Why came not back the heralds of the Mede;
And what had been the sacrifice. That done,
He to the tent returned; and with his chiefs
In earnest conference sat. All surely felt
The day of retribution was at hand:
Yet, how the powers above, the event would shape,
But darkly might they guess. A sound, at length,
Approaching them was heard,--the voice of men
In grief and anger; for, their robes torn off,
Their heads uncovered, and their bodies soiled,--
Even as with ignominy from the gate
They had been driven,--the reverend heralds came,
Painfully walking: and, as they passed on,
The soldiers and the captains gathered round,
Burning with shame and anger. To the tent
Were they brought in; and there the fearful tale
At large did they rehearse; there own disgrace;
The bloody massacre; the awful bolt;
The consternation of the multitude.

Rage hot as fire within the bosom glowed
Of all who heard; and feverish was the thirst,
That shame and bloodshed, with swift blow to avenge.

Yet how? The walls impregnable, the gates
Of everduring brass, all strength of man
Would set at nought. The foe, secure within,
Would hold them in derision. So said most.
Some spake of engines that should burst the gates:
Some counselled, with tall ladders, in dead night,
To scale the wall: some would again have tried
The stratagem, once foiled, by stealth to ope
The portals, and let in the host: and some,
A price upon the tyrant's head advised;
And treaty with his captains and his lords,
The city to surrender,--sure to fall,--
And thus, from fire and slaughter to preserve
Themselves, and it, and all who therein dwelt.

So, in confused debate, for many hours
Conferred they; nor on purpose could resolve.

Arbaces spake not,--for not yet he saw
Clear way to 'vantage: but, to every voice,
Calmly he listened; and, of every scheme,
The better part selected; hoping still,
That 'mid the chaos would gleam forth, at length,
Some guiding--star to action. But, while yet
The strife of tongues was loud, Belesis rose,--
For yet he had not spoken,--and to him
All turned attentive, as, with look inspired,
And ardent tone, thus strenuously he spake.
''Perplex yourselves no more; nor waste your breath
In useless consultation, what to do,
Or what to leave undone. The arm of heaven
Is stretched above the city; and the might
Of man is needed not. The rock--like walls;
The gates of everduring brass,--to you
Impregnable,--to Powers Omnipotent,
Frail are as gossamer. By stealth would ye
The city enter; or, in shade of night,
The walls would climb; or, with your banded strength,
And potent engines, batter at the gates,--
Sure to be foiled: but the Almighty Gods,
Even with their breath, could blow the ramparts down:
Could, with the flashing of their eye--balls, fire
The temples, and the palaces, and towers:
Or, holding back themselves, might summon forth
Their ministers, the earthquake, or the flood,
To shake the strong foundations, and bring down,
Like dry leaves, every stone; or to o'erwrap
With the deep waters, like a winding--sheet,
The corpse of the drowned city. Cease ye then
To ponder and contrive. Leave all to heaven:
For, surely as yon sun is over--head,
Though to us viewless,--so assuredly,
Though ye behold it not, there is put forth
The hand that shall yon city strike, and crush
To dust and ashes. I have seen--I see--
The mouldering skeleton unburied lie,
Thousands of years to rot, yet unconsumed,
The marvel and the warning of a world!
Then be ye calm: retire into your tents:
Refresh yourselves; and patiently await
The foot--tread of the swift--avenging gods.''

He ceased; and there was silence; for his eye
Shone like to his on whom the inner heaven
Is opened; and his voice oracular
Seemed as a speaking god's. At length uprose
Arbaces, and thus said. ''Belesis, thou
With wisdom more than man's dost counsel us:
To every voice have I given patient ear;
On every scheme have pondered; yet remained
Within me darkness, and distrust of all.
Against yon matchless city's strong defence,
No hope have we, by merely mortal power,
That retribution swift and great to bring,
For which our spirits thirst. And, not to man,
Perchance, hath heaven assigned this chastisement.

To him, for small transgressions, may be left
The rod of justice; but, the Gods themselves,
Such crime will surely punish. Nay, even now,
See ye not tokens of the coming doom?
Why, for long days, as with a funeral pall,
Have the clouds covered earth? Why riseth up,
Though no rain falleth, the dark troubled flood?
Why quakes the ground? why falls the marble god,
Shattered, and scorched beneath the thunder--bolt?
Such things before have been, nor man the cause,
Or object; yet, when wickedness like this
Polluteth earth; and, on the hated deed,
Such tokens follow,--surely must I deem
That they the immediate hand of heaven do show,
Stretched forth to punish. As we are advised,
Then let us rest; and patiently expect
What the all--ruling and just gods decree.''

He ceased, and all were satisfied. Then went
The princes and the captains to their tents:
And soon throughout the camp a rumour flew
Of strange and terrible events at hand,
By the wise priest foreseen. What these should be,
All day the talk was, and the wonderment.

Nor, when the sun's great spirit--stirring voice
Had sunk to silence; and the twilight's hush
'Gan soothe the earth's loud throbbing heart to rest,
Aught had the fever bated. 'Mid the gloom,
Gathering in groups, with tones of wrath, and awe,
Still talked they; darkly guessing when, and how,
Heaven's vengeance on the accursëd would come down.

Oft was a shrinking finger toward the sky
Tremblingly pointed; eyes were upward turned;
And, erelong, through the host a whisper flew,
That, from the clouds down looking, had been seen
Dread faces of the doom--denouncing gods.

At length blazed out the watch--fires,--to their tents
All summoning. But yet, far on in night,
Throughout the camp was heard the muffled hum
Of men low talking: and when, nigh on dawn,
O'erwrought at last, in sleep profound all lay,
Still in their dreams they saw Supernal Might
Inexorably working overthrow
Of the proud tyrant, and his towers of strength.

Meantime, till darkness fell, in Nineveh
Were fear, and discontent, and loud complaint,
And auguries of ill. The monarch heard
How spake the people; and for Barak sent;
And, when the priest before him stood, thus said.
''The sacrifice is done; but, if well pleased,
Or wrathful, thereat, be the Powers above,
As yet no sign doth show. The thunder--bolt
That hurled the statue shattered to the ground,
Thou say'st is token that the sacrifice
Accepted was; and will their wrath assuage.
But other thoughts possess the multitude:
Dark prophecies of evil gather strength;
And men are sad at heart, and sore afraid.
Go therefore, thou, and counsel with the stars;
With Spirits of good, or evil,--heaven, or hell,--
I reck not what; so thou may'st rightly learn,
And truly tell, this city's destiny,
And mine. If happy augury thou shalt bring,
Let it be noised abroad, that all may know:
If evil, in the chamber of thy heart
Lock up the secret, save to me alone.''

He ceased awhile; forgetful that the priest
Still in his presence stood; and, all absorbed,
Thus with his own dark thoughts communion held.
''For me hath Fate no terror I need dread.
My cup of life hath been a sparkling one,
Luscious, and strong; and bravely have I quaffed.
If nigh the bottom now, even be it so:
To fulness have I drunk; nor Fate itself
Can rob me of one drop from the sweet past.

For every future ill that she may threat,
In my own hand I hold the remedy,--
Death will cure all. When life no more is sweet,
Needs but one blow,--a momentary smart,--
Then earth, and man, and gods, and Fate are shut
For ever from me; and may do their worst.
But better days may come: I yet may rise,
And trample down the rebel,--now so proud;
And, like the sun eclipsed, more glorious show,
From the brief gloom emerging. Come what may,
While living I will live: music, and wine,
Feasting, and love, shall make me still a heaven
Which the stern gods might envy: and, if Fate
Of these should rob me,--welcome then the stroke
That brings swift death, and blank oblivion!
As I have lived, so joyously I'll die.''

Thus, while yet distant and uncertain seemed
The threatening evils, did his proud heart boast:
Forgetful that, ere death can welcome be,
Must life a load intolerable lie
On the crushed spirit. But the wizard spake;
And, with a start, the musing king awoke.
''Lord of Assyria! would'st thou clearly learn,
And with assurance of its truth, the doom
To thee, and to thy kingdom, from the first
Predestinated,--ere this earth was formed,
Or the great sun and stars in heaven were fixed,--
Speak but the word; and I will summon up
Those who can all reveal.'' ''Then call them now,''
Hastily said the king, ''whoe'er they be,--
Evil, or good,--and I will question them.''

''Lord of the earth art thou,'' the priest replied,
''But not of air; nor of the realms beneath.
Nor power hath living man, at his own choice
Of time and place, from their dim silent land
To call the spirits of the mighty dead.
They may not be commanded: but, invoked
By solemn rites, and with an humble heart,--
At the fit hour and place, may hear the call;
And, in the shadow of their mortal form,
Appear, and answer.'' ''Let me see, and hear
These ghosts, or demons,--whatsoe'er they be;
And, for the manner, place, or time thereof,
I reck not: therefore, as thou wilt, dispose
The order of thy mystery. But, beware!
No juggling, priest! no trick to cheat the eye;
No villain hid in darkness, with thin voice,
To play the solemn ghost. Bold sorcery,
Black as thou wilt,--I heed not. Call the dead,
The damned; spirits of heaven, or hell;
Or demons of the earth,--if such there be,--
That ride upon the hurricane; or lash
The sea to foam; or, 'mid her deepest vaults,
Disport with Earthquake. Summon what thou wilt,--
So it be real, and no mockery:
But, if thou tamper with me, priest, thy life
Shall pay the forfeit.'' ''Be thyself the judge,
O king!'' the seer replied: ''But, canst thou leave,
At midnight, thy bright halls, and regal pomp;
And, clad in sackcloth,--with uncovered head,
Stand in the darksome vaults that underlie
The hoary palace of thine ancestor,
All--conquering Ninus? For, beneath the roof
Where feasters revel, and the dazzling lamps
Make nightly sunshine, the dim mournful shades
Of the great dead will never be invoked.''

Awhile the king sat silent; with fixed eye
Keenly the prophet scanning, as in doubt:
But, soon assured, replied; ''A bold request
Thou makest: sackcloth, for the kingly robes;
The royal head dis--crowned; the sunbright hall
Of mirth and feasting, at the midnight hour,
For the dark vault exchanged:--yet, not the less,
Thus, then, and there, shalt thou behold me, priest:
For, whether good, or evil, my soul thirsts
To know the things to be. But, no delay:
This night shall it be done. Yet, once again,
I warn thee,--no deceit. With eye severe,
Wilt thou be marked; with every sense awake.
Nor ill it pleaseth me that I, at length,
In their own form and working, shall, in part,
Those mysteries behold, of which, till now,
Report alone hath reached me. But, enough:
At midnight I expect thee.'' Nought replied
The solemn prophet; but bowed low, and went.

Long musing sat the king,--suspicion dark
Fretting within him, lest, beneath this show
Of magic wonderment, might treason lurk:
Or, at the best, some purpose insolent
To blind, and lead astray. The hour, the place,
The solitude, the ceremonials all,
Strange seemed, and doubtful: yet, was he resolved
The event to prove. The wine--cup touched he not;
That, with clear eye and mind, to all might he
Give heedful notice. Treason to o'erawe,
If such were dreamed of, twice a hundred men,
In mail complete, he summoned to attend;
Who, when he should have entered, by the gate
Might take their stand, and bide his coming forth.
Thus having ordered, in a restless mood,
The hour he waited. Thrice five hundred years,
Adown the soundless--flowing stream of time,
Had floated on,--since, in his pride of power,
Great Ninus that stupendous pile had reared,
Within whose vault, now, at the midnight's noon,
The last descendant of his mighty line,
With head dis--crowned, and sackcloth for his robes,
Entered, of fate to question. Through his veins
A chillness ran, as closed the massive door,--
Its thunder--like resoundings dying off
In the far space, like echo 'mid the hills,--
And all alone, save with the priest, he stood.

A grave for nations, might that vault appear,--
So vast, so silent, and so terrible!
Long lines of feeble lamps, whose farthest ray
Showed but like kindling darkness,--lighted up,
Grim as a smile upon the face of death,
The tomb--like horror: yet no form distinct
Of aught was visible. The priest moved on;
And signed the king to follow. Still was all
Shapeless, and dark, save where, at either hand,
The base of some enormous pillar stood,
Propping the unseen roof. On, on they went;--
The echo of their softly treading feet,
Amid the empty vast, like Spirit--tongues,
Gloomily muttering. But, erelong, more thick
The darkness gathered. As a rising cloud
Shuts, one by one, from the lone traveller's gaze,
Heaven's cheering stars,--even so, as on they moved,
Some formless thing obscure, seemed blotting out
Lamp after lamp,--till all before them, now,
Was solid blackness. Paused at length the priest,
And stood in silence: nor the monarch aught
Could dare to question; for his blood ran cold,
His hair began to stiffen. One wild look
All round he cast. To either hand, shone still,
And far behind, the lines of glow--worm lamps;
But, on the blackness that before him stood,
His eyes soon fixed; for there he seemed to feel
The presence of some dread invisible Thing,
Erelong to appear; and, like the voice of Fate,
His destiny utter. But the priest, at length,
With solemn accent lifted up his voice:
And, like the clamor of a distant host,
A throng of echoes muttered. ''Mighty shades
Of kings departed! on whose awful brows
Hath, in far distant ages, sat the crown
Of this most glorious empire of the earth,--
The latest of your long--enduring line,
Nor least,--Sardanapalus, king of kings,
Here, by my voice, invokes you. Fate doth frown;
Victorious rebels threat, with sword and fire,
The ancient city of your majesty!
Oh! from your dim and silent regions, then,
Deign to appear; and let your voice be heard,
Prophetic of her doom.'' The wizard ceased;
And for awhile was silence: but, at length,
A sound as of a tempest coming on,
Arose, and filled the vault; then died away:
And lo! amid the thickest darkness stood
A dim gigantic form. A regal crown
Was on the massive head; the silvery beard
Descended to the breast. The face was wan
As a gray cloud of morning. On the king
The large cold eye--balls were a moment turned;
And then it passed. Came next a female form,
Tall and majestic; fierce, yet beautiful.
Crowned like the first was she; but, on her arm,
A shield was braced; her right hand grasped a spear.
He knew the warrior--queen, Semiramis.

But she was gone: another filled her place;
Another, and another: on each brow
A kingly diadem glimmering: on--on--on--
Another--still another,--a long train
Of phantom monarchs, pale, and sorrowful:
Some, in the gorgeous robes of peaceful state;
Some, clothed in mail complete. In youth were some,
Some, middle--aged, and some were gray with years.

Each, as he passed along, upon the king
Turned his cold moon--like eye: but not a voice
As yet was heard; and grave--like was the hush.

Strange horror held the king: his hair stood up;
His breath came quick: the beating of his heart,
In that intensest silence, like the stroke
Of some great engine, seemed his ear to stun.

Still onward glided by the ghostly train;
Till came, at length, one shape that, more than all,
Sent shuddering through his soul. He saw, distinct
As in the life,--though wan and mournful now,--
The face of his dead father: the same crown
That he had worn; upon his stately form
The same habiliments. Not like the rest,
Passed he away. With pale phosphoric eye,
Upon the gasping son, the phantom sire
Gazed long, and silently: till thus, at length,
From lips unmoving, with sepulchral tone,
The well--known voice pronounced; ''FEAR NOT, FEAR NOT;
BUT LAUGH THY FOES TO SCORN. GREAT NINEVEH,
TO MORTAL MIGHT WILL NEVER BOW THE KNEE,
TILL TIGRIS FROM HIS BED SHALL 'GAINST HER RISE;
O'ERTOP HER BATTLEMENT, AND LOFTY TOWERS,
AND RIOT IN HER STREETS.'' The spectre ceased;
And melted in the darkness. But, at once,
A multitude of awful voices rose,
As in far space, and cried again, ''Fear not:
Great Nineveh will never bow the knee,
Till Tigris from his bed shall 'gainst her rise;
O'ertop her battlement, and lofty towers,
And riot in her streets!'' With every word,
Fainter, and yet more faint, the sound became;
As if in rapid flight, 'mid upper air,
Or through the solid earth, the voices fled.

Fell then a heavy silence. Cold with awe,
Yet inwardly exulting, a brief space
The monarch stood; but not a word could speak,--
So was his soul o'erwrought: nor spake the priest;
But both in silence turned, and took their way.

Upon the morrow, when from troubled sleep
The king arose,--with pride was he inflamed,
And confidence in that dark augury.
Then sent he forth, the princes and the chiefs
For a great feast to summon. Ne'er before,
Even in his days of undisputed power,
Had shone so gloriously the festive hall,
As now,--when, on the very brink of fate,
He, and his matchless city, tottering stood.
Deeply he drank, and loudly did he boast.
''Let the fools lie, and rot upon the plain!
What heed we? For three years our walls are stored:
They cannot climb them, nor can burst the gates.
Let the fools rest! Famine shall gnaw their flesh,
Or pestilence sweep them off: but here will we
Feast, and rejoice, and laugh their rage to scorn.
Great Nineveh will never bow the knee,
Till Tigris from his bed shall 'gainst her rise;
O'ertop her battlement, and lofty towers,
And riot in her streets! So spake the Fates.
Fill then your cups: with music, and with wine,
And with the joys of love, our lives shall pass.''

Thus, with loud voice, spake he his boastful heart;
And all the thousand lords and rulers raised
Their brimming cups, and to the bottom drained.

Yet were the minds of most with care o'ercast,
With dark forebodings, or ill--smothered ire.
Upon the vacant place, where erst had sat
The prince of all beloved, was many an eye
In sorrow turned: upon the nob le queen
Was many a sad thought fixed: remembrance, too,
Of that abhorrëd sacrifice arose;
And, with it, 'gainst the perpetrator, wrath,
Hard to conceal. Nor at the feast were seen
The two, of all the captains honored most,
And more than all illustrious, Jerimoth,
And young Nebaioth: nor was it unknown,
Though unavowed, that, in a deep disgust
At that most bloody act, they held aloof.

But, as the night wore on; and the high strains
Of joyous music lifted up their souls;
And the deep draughts of sunny wine 'gan fire
Their sluggish blood, and, with unnatural shine,
Dazzle the mental eye,--loud grew their mirth;
And high their boasting. Toward the morning, rose
A tempest, that the walls appeared to shake:
As though the clouds had burst above their heads,
Poured down the hissing rain: the thunder roared;
The incessant lightnings leaped; yet nought recked they:
Deeper they drank, and madder grew their mirth.

Two hours the sun had risen, ere, in the sleep
Of utter drunkenness, the revel closed.