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These thoughts will be as covered and forgotten

As are the tracks of Pharaoh's chariotwheels In the Egyptian sands.

Ant. Ah! when I come

Again to Antioch! When will that be 1 Alas! alas!

Scene II. Antiochus; Philip; A MesSenger.

Messenger. May the King live forever! Ant. \Vho art thou, and whence contest thou? Messenger. My Lord, I am H messenger from Antioch, Sent here by Lysias.

Ant. A strange foreboding

Of something evil overshadows me. l am no reader of the Jewish Scriptures; I know not Hebrew; but my HighPriest Jason, As I remember, told me of a Prophet Who saw a little cloud rise from the sea

Like a man's hand, and soon the heaven was black

With clouds and rain. Here, Philip,

read; I cannot; I see that cloud. It makes the letters


Before mine eyes. Philip (reading). "To King Antiochus,

The God, Epiphanes."

Ant. O mockery!

Even Lysias laughs at me ! — Go on, go on!

Philip (reading). "We pray thee hasten thy return. The realm Is falling from thee. Since thou hast

gone from us The victories of Judas Maccabaeus Form all our annals. First he overthrew Thy forces at Beth-horon, and passed on, And took Jerusalem, the Holy City. And then Emmaus fell; and "then Bethsura;

Ephron and all the towns of Galaad, And Maccabams marched to Carnion." Ant. Enough, enough! Go call my

chariot-men; We will drive forward, forward, without


Until we come to Antioch. My captains,

My Lysias, Gorgias, Seron, and Nicanor,

Are babes in battle, and this dreadful


Will riili me of my kingdom and my crown.

My elephants shall trample him to dust; I will wipe out his nation, and will make

Jerusalem a common burying-place, And every home within its walls a tomb!

(Throws up his hands, and sinks into the arms of attendants, who lay him upon a bank.)

Philip. Antiochus ! Antiochus! Alas, The King is ill! What is it, O my Lord? Ant. Nothing. A sudden and sharp spasm of pain, As if the lightning struck me, or the knife

Of an assassin smote me to the heart. 'T is passed, even as it came. Let us set forward. Philip. See that the chariots be in readiness; We will depart forthwith.

Ant. A moment more.

I cannot stand. I am become at once Weak as an infant. Ye will have to lead me.

Jove, or Jehovah, or whatever name Thou wouldst be named, — it is alike to me, —

If I knew how to pray, I would entreat To live a little longer.

Philip. O my Lord,

Thou shalt not die; we will not let thee


Ant. How canst thou help it, Philip? O the pain! Stab after stab. Thou hast no shield against

This unseen weapon. God of Israel, Since all the other gods abandon me, Help me. I will release the Holy City, Garnish with goodly gifts the Holy Temple.

Thy people, whom I judged to be unworthy

To be so much as buried, shall be equal
Unto the citizens of Antioch.
I will become a Jew, and will declare
Through all the world that is inhabited
The power of God!

Philip. He faints. It is like death.

Bring here the royal litter. We will

bear him Into the camp, while yet he lives.

Ant. O Philip,

Into what tribulation am I come!
Alas! l now remember all the evil
That I have done the Jews; and for this


These troubles are upon me, and behold I perish through great grief in a strange land.

Philip. Antiochns ! my King!
Ant. Nay, King no longer.

Take thou my royal robes, my signetring,

My crown and sceptre, and deliver them

Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator;
And unto the good Jews, my citizens,
In all my towns, say that their dying

Wisheth them joy, prosperity, and health.

I who, puffed up with pride and arrogance,

Thought all the kingdoms of the earth mine own,

If I would but outstretch my hand and take them,

Meet face to face a greater potentate,

King Death — Epiphanes — the Illustrious!




Tartar Song from the Prose Version of Chodzko.


"He is gone to the desert land!
I can see the shining mane
Of his horse on the distant plain,
As he rides with his Kossak band!

"Come back, rebellious one!
Let thy proud heart relent;
Come back to my tall, white tent,
Come back, my only son!

"Thy hand in freedom shall
Cast thy hawks, when morning breaks,
On the swans of the Seven Lakes,
On the lakes of Karajal.

"I will give thee leave to stray
And pasture thy hunting steeds
In the long grass and the reeds
Of the meadows of Karaday.

"I will give thee my coat of mail,
Of softest leather made,
With choicest steel inlaid;
Will not all this prevail?"


"This hand no longer shall

Cast my hawks, when morning breaks,

On the swans of the Seven Lakes,
On the lakes of Karajal.

"I will no longer stray
And pasture my hunting steeds
In the long grass and the reeds
Of the meadows of Karaday.

"Though thou give me thy coat of mail,
Of softest leather made,
With choicest steel inlaid,
All this cannot prevail.

"What right hast thou, O Khan,
To me, who am mine own,
Who am slave to God alone,
And not to any man?

"God will appoint the day

When I again shall be

By the blue, shallow sea,

Where the steel-bright sturgeons play.

"God, who doth care for me,
In the barren wilderness,
On unknown hills, no less
Will my companion be.

"When I wander lonely and lost
In the wind ; when I watch at night
Like a hungry wolf, and am white
And covered with hoar-frost;

'' Yea, wheresoever I be,
In the yellow desert sands,

In mountains or unknown lands,
Allah will care for me!"


Then Sobra, the old, old man, —
Three hundred and sixty years
Had he lived in this laud of tears,
Bowed down and said, "O Khan!

"If you bid me, I will speak.
There's no sap in dry grass,
No marrow iu dry bones! Alas,
The mind of old men is weak!

"I am old, I am very old:
I have seen the primeval man,

I have seen the great Gengis Khan,
Arrayed in his robes of gold.

"What I say to you is the truth;
And I say to you, O Khan,
Pursue not the star-white man,
Pursue not the beautiful youth.

"Him the Almightv nude.
And brought him forth of the light,
At the verge and end of the night,
When men on the mountain prayed.

II He was born at the break of day,
When abroad the angels walk;
He hath listened to their talk,
And he knoweth what they say.

"Gifted with Allah's grace,

Like the moon of Ramazan

When it shines in the skies, O Khan,

Is the light of his beautiful face.

"When first on earth he trod,
The first words that he said
Were these, as he stood and prayed,
There is no God but God!

"And he shall be king of men,
For Allah hath heard his prayer,
And the Archangel in the air,
Gabriel, hath said, Amen!"


Tartar Song, from the Prose Version of Chodzko.

Black are the moovs before Kazan, And their stagnant waters smell of blood:

I said in my heart, with horse and man, l will swim across this shallow ilood.

Under the feet of Argamaek,

Like new moons were the shoes he

Silken trappings hung on Ins back,
In a talisman on his neck, a prayer.

My warriors, thought I, are following me;

But when I looked behind, alas! Not one of all the band could l see, All had sunk in the black morass!

Where are our shallow fords ? and where The power of Kazan with its fourfold gates?

From the prison windows our maidens fair

Talk of us still through the iron grates.

We cannot hear them ; for horse and man

Lie buried deep in the dark abyss! Ah! the black day hath come down on Kazan!

Ah! was ever a grief like this?


Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose Version of A lishan.

Dowx from yon distant mountain height

The brooklet flows through the village street;

A boy comes forth to wash his hands, Washing, yes washing, there he stands, In the water cool and sweet.

Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,

O my brooklet cool and sweet! I come from yon mountain high and cold,

Where lieth the new snow on the old, And melts in the summer heat.

Brook, to what river dost thou go?

O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the river there below
Where in bundies the violets grow,

And sun and shadow meet.

Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!

1 go to the garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale
Her love-song doth repeat.

Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?

O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the fountain at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to

And whenever she looks therein,
l rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,
And my joy is then complete.


Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose
Version of Alishan.

Welcome, O Stork ! that dost wing

Thy flight from the far-away!
Thou hast brought us the signs of

Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.

Descend, 0 Stork! descend

Upon our roof to rest;
In our ash-tree, O my friend,

My darling, make thy nest.

To thee, O Stork, I complain,

O Stork, to thee I impart
The thousand sorrows, the pain

And aching of my heart.

When thou away didst go,

Away from this tree of ours, The withering winds did blow,

And dried up all the flowers.

Dark grew the brilliant sky,
Cloudy and dark and drear;

They were breaking the snow on high,
And winter was drawing near.

From Varaca's rocky wall,

From the rock of Varaca unrolled, The snow came and covered all,

And the green meadow was cold.

O Stork, our garden with snow

Was hidden away and lost,
And the rose-trees that in it grow

Were withered by snow and frost.


To M. Duperrier, Gentleman of Aix in Provence, on the Death of his Daughter.


Will then, Duperrier, thy sorrow be
And shall the sad discourse
Whispered within thy heart, by tender-
ness paternal,
Only augment its force?

Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the
tomb descending
By death's frequented ways,
Has it become to thee a labyrinth never

Where thy lost reason strays?

• I know the cnarms that made her youth
a benediction:
Nor should I be content,
As a censorious friend, to solace thine
By her disparagement.

But she was of the world, which fairest
things exposes
To fates the most forlorn;
A rose, she too hath lived as long as live
the roses,
The space of one brief morn.


Death has his rigorous laws, unparal-
leled, unfeeling;
All prayers to him are vain;
Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our
He leaves us to complain.

The poor man in his hut, with only thatch
for cover,
Unto these laws must bend;
The sentinel that guards the barriers of
the Louvre
Cannot our kings defend.

; To murmur against death, in petulant
Is never for the best;
. To will what God doth will, that is the

only science
I That gives us any rest.



Thou mighty Prince of Church and

Richelieu ! until the hour of death,
Whatever road man chooses, Fate
Still holds him subject to her breath.
Spun of all silks, our days and nights
Have sorrows woven with delights;
And of this intermingled shade
Our various destiny appears,
Even as one sees the course of years
Of summers and of winters made.

Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave;
Sometimes impending peril lowers
Beyond the seaman's skill to save.
The Wisdom, infinitely wise,
That gives to human destinies
Their foreordained necessity,
Has made no law more fixed below,
Than the alternate ebb and flow
Of Fortune and Adversity.



An angel with a radiant face,
Above a cradle bent to look,

Seemed his own image there to trace,
As in the waters of a brook.

"Dear child! who me resemblest so,"
It whispered, "come, O come with

Happy together let us go,
The earth unworthy is of thee!

"Here none to perfect bliss attain;

The soul in pleasure suffering lies; /oy hath an undertone of pain,

And even the happiest hours their sighs.

"Fear doth at every portal knock;

Never a day serene and pure From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock

Hath made the morrow's dawn secure.

"What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears

Come to disturb so pure a brow?

And with the bitterness of tears
These eyes of azure troubled grow?

"Ah no! into the fields of space,
Away shalt thou escape with me;

And Providence will grant thee grace
Of all the days that were to be.

"Let no one in thy dwelling cower,
In sombre vestments draped and

But let them welcome thy last hour,
As thy first moments once they hailed.

"Without a cloud be there each brow;

There let the grave no shadow cast; When one is pure as thou art now, The fairest day is still the last."

And waving wide his wings of white, The angel, at these words, had sped

Towards the eternal realms of light! — Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!



Italy! Italy ! thou who 'rt doomed to wear

The fatal gift of beauty, and possess The dower funest of infinite wretchedness

Written upon thy forehead by despair; Ah! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair.

That they might fear thee more, or love thee less,

Who in the splendor of thy loveliness

Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare!

Then from the Alps I should not see descending

Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde

Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore,

Nor should I see thee girded with a sword

Not thine, and with the stranger's arm contending,

Victor or vanquished, slave forevermore.

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