The muffled clash of arms is past, as if it ne'er had been, The light'ning scymitar has sheathed its terrors bright and keen; Once bright, once keen, dark spots of blood bedim its lustre now, And the sharpness of the tempered edge, is dull'd by many a blow. Dark windings of the valley's bed! deep gorges of the Hill! Bear further off that hurried tread, Which wakes your echoes, low, and dead; It fails and all is still.
Seems now as if no voice, no sound Had ever rung, or moaned around, Save perhaps, some lone bird's plaintive song, Dying those wild, vast woods among; Unanswered, for there lingers there No joyous denizen of air, And that one wand'rer flitting by, Vainly, for sweet response might sigh, Vainly might hope for some far strain, To greet his warbled call again; The breeze alone, shrill, dirge-like, sad, Borne down those huge hills cedar-clad; Deep hid in gloom, the rivers rush, Pouring unseen, through reed and bush, And (sign of utter solitude Strange sounds of alien rill, and wood; Woods, that are murmm'ring far away, Rills, that glide off in foam and spray, Through mist-like distance dim, and grey: No other sounds erewhile were heard Responsive to the lonely bird But now, there is another tone, Faint, as the river's faintest moan; Low, as the West-wind's softest sigh, Breathed sweet, from an unclouded sky; Sad, as the last note's calm decay, 'Ere the wild warbler flits away; Yet heard through all, those tones belong Neither to stream, nor wood, nor song: They speak of life, they bear a thrill Not native to the wordless grove; The whisper'd echoes of the hill, The gushing waters, of the rill, Have no such power to move And there is life, a human form Lies prostrate in the vale, Like a reft victim of the storm, Fall'n, bleeding, cold & pale A stately form, though blighted now, For grandeur dwells upon his brow, And light shines in his lifted eye, Which looks on Death unfearingly, And o'er him, rests that placid grace, Sign of high blood, and noble race, His forehead bears a diadem Burning with many an orient gem, Stained ruddy now in blood The starry robe, the flashing ring The pearls in bright, and braided string All speak of Persia's slaughtered King, Stretched dying by the flood
Let not the glass be shaken Life's sands, are ebbing low, Let no loud winds awaken The tide is past its flow
The swords that gleamed around him Are reddened with his gore, The traitor-hands that bound him Will never bind him more
All Iran has forsaken The God to whom she kneeled This word no more can waken Life on the battle-field
Not one, of all the glorious host That bowed to Mithra's beam Ere Persia's crown, was won, and lost, By Issus fatal stream. Not one, who by the Granicus Poured forth their lives in blood; Not one, who on Arbela's plain In serried phalanx stood, Not one remains to watch him now Not one, to wipe his death-damp brow; A monarch, left without a throne; Pomp, might, dominion, all are gone, A Son bereaved, a childless sire, A King slain in the traitor's ire; On the dark streamlet's wild bank lying, Behold Darius lone, and dying.
Where, are now, his farewell dreams Fading fast as daylight's beams? O! where rests the monarch's heart Now, when life, and glory part? Sees he, with that glazing eye Susa's gorgeous majesty? All the light of regal halls Where the gushing fountain falls? All that rich, and radiant ring, Once the Guard of Asia's king? Gardens bright, where flower, and tree, Waved in airs of Araby? Whither, wings his spirit now? Whither do his last thoughts flow? All his mighty Empire, lies Round him, as he droops & dies, Ancient Egypt's, storied pride With the dark Nile's pondrous tide; India, rich in pearl and gem, Hallowed by the Ganges' stream; Syria with her tideless sea Ever sleeping placidly Desert lands, where wand'ring dwell Ishmael's sons invincible, Fall'n Palmyra, ruined Tyre, Where the Grecian's flood of ire Burst so full, and fierce and strong, Rolled so dark, and deep along, That no voice was left, to tell How their sovereign city fell As the prophet-doom was spoken, Her robe is rent, her sceptre broken Israel's God is Conqu'ror now Crown, and plume have left her brow, She rests silent by the sea And so shall rest eternally.
O! not to these the monarch turns, Not to glories past away; Remembrance, in his spirit burns, But not of power's decay.
A voice, still whispers in his ear Of one his word betrayed, And shadow-like, there lingers near A form that will not fade. The warning words of one who died, That victim to a Tyrant's pride Th' Athenian voice of prophesy, " King my Avenger's step draws nigh " The twilight of thy day is closing, " And clouds are on its fall reposing. " I hear the distant tempest sighing, " In muttered murmurs, faint, and dying " Asia, with sound of arms is shaken, " But who will to the conflict waken? " On rolls the foe, in living thunder, " Insatiate for the dazzling plunder " The steeled bands of Macedon, " The hosts of Ammon's haughty son " Shall crush thy pomp, shall spurn thy gems, " Shall dye with blood, thine Empire's streams " From Iran's throne, its Sovereign hurl; " And Mithra's gorgeous standard furl: " For ever furl, the sacred fire " Shall never more to heaven aspire, " Its light shall fade; its flames shall die, " They own not immortality " Another Altar shall arise " Beneath the bright Earth's cloudless skies. " King of the Earth, my course is run, " Remember me, and Macedon. " Thus boldly Caridemus spoke Then sank beneath the tyrant's stroke: But his last voice, to heaven ascends, And heaven, to hear its accent bends. From the dark tomb Darius gave, There comes, no murmur of a slave, The hallowed blood of Liberty, sends from the Dust its thrilling cry Makes to the Gods its stern appeal, And summons Grecia's sons of steel.
They come! They come! A measured tread Heavy, and clanking, deep, and dread, Breaks up the hush, profoundly dead, Of that wild, rocky vale And gleaming lance, and flashing shield, Their blood-gilt light and glitter yield, And plumes are on the gale Onward they come! A noble host! Now in the deep'ning valley lost, Now through the wood-glade, glancing seen, All mailed, and burnished, bright, & sheen At length, around the king they pour, Of Grecia's host, the pride and power. Darius, lifts again his eye, He sees not now, the placid sky, For the green-wood, and lonely glen, He views a throng, of steel armed men; The hum, and clash swell stern, and loud, And o'er him many a form is bowed, And many an eye of eagle-light, Meets piercingly his failing sight. Tall warriors, on their lances leaning, Plume shadowed brows of darkest meaning, Surround the dying king Their shapes before his vision swim Ghost-like, and wand'ring, faint & dim, Their voice, sounds like a sacred hymn, Low, solemn, murmuring. One kneels beside, and props his head, And from the river's crystal bed, Sprinkles his ghastly brow The cool, clear water as it falls, A moment, sight and speech recalls; Darius knew his foe. He clasped his hands, and raised his eyes Bright with forgiveness to the skies, He blessed his conqu'ror in that hour, He prayed for added might, and pow'r, To follow Asia's alien Lord, And strengthen, his resistless sword: Statira's shade is near him now She lightens thus his kingly brow And, with her calm, and holy smiles Her Lord, and Captor reconciles But soon, that gentle shade is gone, And Vengeance lingers there alone; A sudden gloom falls round the King; Stern thoughts within his bosom spring, The Rebel-Satrap, and his band, Men, of unhallowed heart, and hand, Before their slaughtered monarch rise, His Curse falls on them ere he dies, " Soldiers of Greece and Macedon " For the dark deed, by Bessus done, I leave revenge to Ammon's son. He before whom all Persia fell The Glorious, the Invincible The lord of Cyrus solemn throne The crowned in haughty Babylon, I charge him, by his power, and pride, To think how Iran's monarch died, To turn the Traitor's blood stained sword, Back to the bosom of its lord, A bitter draught he gave his King, His lips shall drain the same dark spring: Warriors! I may not longer stay, For Mithra calls my soul away!
He said, his pale lip ceased to quiver His soul soared to its awful Giver, The host stood round, all hushed, and still, While dirge-like murmured, breeze, and rill.
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Death of Darius Codomanus
Charlotte Bronti
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Graphic - Albrecht Altdorfer 1480-1538
