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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
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!
These troubles are upon me, and behold I perish through great grief in a strange land.
Philip. Antiochns ! my King!
Take thou my royal robes, my signetring,
My crown and sceptre, and deliver them
Unto my son, Antiochus Eupator;
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!
A HANDFUL OF TRANSLATIONS.
Tartar Song from the Prose Version of Chodzko.
"He is gone to the desert land!
"Come back, rebellious one!
"Thy hand in freedom shall
"I will give thee leave to stray
"I will give thee my coat of mail,
"This hand no longer shall
Cast my hawks, when morning breaks,
On the swans of the Seven Lakes,
"I will no longer stray
"Though thou give me thy coat of mail,
"What right hast thou, O Khan,
"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,
"When I wander lonely and lost
'' Yea, wheresoever I be,
In mountains or unknown lands,
Then Sobra, the old, old man, —
"If you bid me, I will speak.
"I am old, I am very old:
I have seen the great Gengis Khan,
"What I say to you is the truth;
"Him the Almightv nude.
II He was born at the break of day,
"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,
"And he shall be king of men,
THE SIEGE OF KAZAN.
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,
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?
THE BOY AND THE BROOK.
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!
And sun and shadow meet.
Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
1 go to the garden in the vale
Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
And whenever she looks therein,
TO THE STORK.
Armenian Popular Song, from the Prose
Welcome, O Stork ! that dost wing
Thy flight from the far-away!
Thou hast made our sad hearts gay.
Descend, 0 Stork! descend
Upon our roof to rest;
My darling, make thy nest.
To thee, O Stork, I complain,
O Stork, to thee I impart
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,
They were breaking the snow on high,
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,
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
Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the
Where thy lost reason strays?
• I know the cnarms that made her youth
But she was of the world, which fairest
Death has his rigorous laws, unparal-
The poor man in his hut, with only thatch
; To murmur against death, in petulant
TO CARDINAL RICHELIEU.
Thou mighty Prince of Church and
Richelieu ! until the hour of death,
Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours
THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.
FROM JEAN REBOUL, THE BAKER OF
An angel with a radiant face,
Seemed his own image there to trace,
"Dear child! who me resemblest so,"
Happy together let us go,
"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
"Ah no! into the fields of space,
And Providence will grant thee grace
"Let no one in thy dwelling cower,
But let them welcome thy last hour,
"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.