Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848

ZENOBIA

BY MYRON L. MASON'Twas holyday in Rome. Her sevenfold hillsWere trembling with the tread of multitudesWho thronged her streets. Hushed was the busy humOf labor. Silent in the shops reposedThe implements of toil. A common loveOf country, and a zeal for her renown,Had warmed all hearts, and mingled for a dayPlebian ardor with patrician pride.The sire, the son, the matron and the maid,Joined in bestowing on their emperorThe joyous benedictions of the state.Alas! about that day's magnificenceWas spread a web of shame! The victor's swordWas stained with cowardice – his dazzling fameTarnished by insult to a fallen woman.Returning from his conquests in the East,Aurelian led in his triumphant trainPalmyra's beauteous queen, Zenobia,Whose only crime had been the love she boreTo her own country and her household gods.Long had the Orient owned the sovereign swayOf Rome imperial, and in forced submissionHad bowed the neck to the oppressor's yoke.The corn of Syria, her fruits and wares,The pearls of India, Araby's perfumes,The golden treasures of the mountains, allProfusely poured in her luxurious lap,Crowned to the full her proud magnificence.Rome regal, throned on her eternal hills,With power supreme and wide-extended hand,Plundered the prostrate nations without stintOf all she coveted, and, chiefly thou,O Liberty, the birthright boon of Heaven.But Rome had passed her noon; her despotismWas overgrown; an earthquake was at workAt her foundations; and new dynasties,Striking their roots in ripening revolutions,Were soon to sway the destinies of realms.The East was in revolt. The myriad seedsOf dark rebellion, sown by tyranny,And watered by the blood of patriots slain,Were springing into life on every hand.Success was alternating in this strife'Twixt power and right, and anxious Victory,With balance poised, the doubtful issue feared.Amid the fierce contention, 'mid the dinOf war's sublime encounter, and the crashOf falling systems old, Palmyra's queenFollowed her valiant lord, Palmyra's king.Ever beside him in the hour of peril,She warded from his breast the battle's rage;And in the councils of the cabinetHer prudent wisdom was her husband's guide.Domestic treason, with insidious stab,Snatched from Zenobia's side her gallant lord,And threw into her hand the exigenciesOf an unstable and capricious throne.Yet was her genius not inadequate.The precepts of experience, intertwinedWith intellectual power of lofty grade,Combined to raise Palmyra's beauteous queenHigh in the golden scale of moral greatness.Under the teachings of the good LonginusThe streams of science flowed into her mind;And, like the fountain-fostered mountain lake,Her soul was pure as its ethereal food.The patronage bestowed on learned menDeclared her love for letters. The rewards,Rich and unnumbered, she conferred on meritHer own refined, exalted taste betrayed.Her graceful and majestic figure, crownedWith beauty such as few but angels wear,Like the rich casing that surrounds the gem,Heightened the splendor of her brilliant genius.Equally daring on the battle-fieldAnd in the chase, her prudence and her courage,Displayed in many a hot emergency,Had twined victorious laurel round her brow.Under her rule Palmyra's fortunes roseTo an unequalled altitude, and wealthFlowed in upon her like a golden sea,Her wide dominion, stretching from the NileTo the far Euxine and Euphrates' flood —Her active commerce, whose expanded rangeMonopolized the trade of all the East —Her stately capital, whose towers and domesVied with proud Rome in architectural grace —Her own aspiring aims and high renown —All breathed around the Asiatic queenAn atmosphere of greatness, and betrayedHer bold ambition, and her rivalryWith the imperial mistress of the world.But 't is the gaudiest flower is soonest plucked;The sturdiest oak first feels the builder's axe.Palmyra's rising greatness had awakedThe jealousy of Rome, and Fortune lookedOn her prosperity with envious eye.Under the golden eagles of the empire,Aurelian's soldiers swept the thirsty sands,And poured into Palmyra's palmy plains,A mighty host hot for the battle-field.Borne on her gallant steed, the warrior queenThe conflict sought, and led her eager troopsInto the stern encounter. Like the stormOf their own desert plain, innumerable,They rushed upon the foe, and courted danger.Amid the serried ranks, whose steel arrayGlowed in the noonday sun, and threw a floodOf wavy sheen into the fragrant air,Zenobia rode; and, like an angry spirit,Commissioned from above to chastise men,Where'er she moved was death. There was a flashOf scorn that lighted up her fiery eye,A glance of wrath upon her countenance —There was a terror in her frenzied armThat struck dismay into the boldest heart.Alas for her, Fortune was unpropitious!Her fearless valor found an overmatchIn the experienced prudence of Aurelian;And scarcely could the desert's hardy sonsCope with the practiced legions of the empire.The battle gained, Palmyra taken, sacked —Its queen a captive, hurled from off a throne,Stripped of her wide possessions, forced to sueIn humblest attitude for even life —The haughty victor led his weary legionsBack to Italia's shores, and in his trainHis fallen rival, loaded with chains of gold,Forged from the bullion of her treasury.'Twas holyday in Rome. The morning sun,Emerging from the palace-crested hillsOf the Campagna, poured a flood of lightUpon the slumbering city, summoningIts teeming thousands to the festival.A playful breeze, rich-laden with perfumeFrom groves of orange, gently stirred the leaves,And curled the ripples on the Tiber's breast,Bearing to seaward o'er the flowery plainThe rising peans' joyful melodies.Flung to the wind, high from the swelling domeThat crowned the Capitol, the imperial banner,Broidered with gold and glittering with gems,Unfurled its azure field; and, as it caughtThe sunbeams and flashed down upon the throngThat filled the forum, there arose a shoutDeep as the murmur of the cataract.In that spontaneous outburst of applauseRome spoke; and as the echo smote the hillsIt woke the slumbering memory of a timeWhen Rome was free.A trumpet from the wallsProclaimed the day's festivities begun.Preceded by musicians and sweet singers,A long procession passed the city-gate,And, traversing the winding maze of streets,Climbed to the Capitol. Choice victims, dressedWith pictured ornaments and wreaths of flowers,An offering to the tutelary gods,Led the advance. Then followed spoils immense,Baskets of jewels, vases of wrought gold,Paintings and statuary, cloths and wares,Of costliest manufacture, close succeededBy the rich symbols of Palmyra's glory,Torn from her temples and her palaces,To grace a triumph in the streets of Rome.With toilsome step next walked the captive queen;And then the victor, in his car of state,With milk-white horses of Thessalian breed,And in his retinue a splendid trainOf Rome's nobility. In one long lineThe army last appeared in bright array,With banners high displayed, filling the airWith songs of victory. The pageant proudQuickened remembrance of departed days,And warmed the bosoms of the multitudeWith deep devotion to the commonwealth.High in his gilded chariot, decked in robesOf broidered purple, and with laurel crowned,Rode the triumphant conqueror, in his handThe emblems of his power. The capitalOf his wide empire was inflamed with zealTo do him honor and exalt his praise.The world was at his feet; his sovereign willNone dared to question, and his haughty wordWas law to nations. Yet his heart was troubled.In the dim distance he discerned the flightOf Freedom, on swift pinions heraldingEnfranchisement to the oppressed of earth.He knew the feeble tenure of dominionBased on allegiance with reluctance paid;And read the future overthrow of RomeIn the unyielding spirit of his victim.Uncovered in the sun, weary and faint,Bowed to the earth with chains of ravished gold,With feet unsandaled, walked Zenobia,Slave to the craven tyrant's cruelty.Neither her peerless beauty, nor her sex,Nor yet her grievous sufferings could meltThe despot's stony heart. She, who surpassedHer conqueror in all the qualitiesOf head or heart which crown humanityWith nobleness and high preëminence —She, whose misfortunes in a glorious cause,And not her errors, had achieved her ruin —Burdened with ignominy and disgraceFor her resplendent virtues, not her crimes—She who had graced a palace, and dispensedPardon to penitence, reward to worth,And tempered justice with benevolence —Wickedly torn from her exalted station,Now walked a captive in the streets of Rome,E'en at the feet of the oppressors steeds.Yet was her spirit all untamed. DisdainStill sat upon her countenance, and breathedUnmeasured scorn upon her persecutors.The blush of innocence upon her cheek,The burning pride that flashed within her eye,The majesty enthroned upon her brow,Told, in a language which the tyrant felt,That her unconquered spirit soared sublimeIn a pure orbit whither his sordid soulCould ne'er attain. Had he a captive ledSome odious wretch, whose sanguinary crimes,Long perpetrated under sanction of a strengthNo arm could reach, had spread a pall of mourningOver a people's desolated homes,He then had right to triumph o'er his victim.But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambitionHad led him to unsheath his victor swordAgainst a monarch whose distinctive swayRavished from Rome no tittle of her right;And, to augment the aggregate of wrong,That monarch was a woman, whose renown,Compared with his, was gold compared with brass.As o'er the stony street the captive pacedHer weary way before the victor's steeds,And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze,The look of calm defiance on her faceTold that she bowed not to her degradation.Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all,The billows of the mad excitement dashedAbout her, and broke harmless at her feet.Dim reminiscences of former daysBurst like a deluge on her errant mind;Leading her backward to the buried past,When in the artless buoyancy of youthShe sat beneath Palmyra's fragrant shadesAnd gleaned the pages of historic story,Red with Rome's bloody catalogue of wrong.Little she dreamed Palmyra's palacesShould e'er be scenes of Roman violence;Little she dreamed that hers should be the lot(A captive princess led in chains) to crownThe splendor of a Roman holyday.Alas! the blow she thought not of had fallen.A bloody struggle, like a dreadful dream,Had briefly raged, and all to her was lost,Save the poor grace of a degraded life.Her sun of glory was gone down in blood —The glittering fabric of her power despoiledTo swell the triumph of her conqueror.But in the wreck of her magnificence,With eye prophetic, she foresaw the ruinOf the proud capital of all the world.She saw the quickening symptoms of rebellionAmong the nations, and she caught their cryFor freedom and for vengeance!Hark! the GothIs thundering at the gate, His reckless swordLeaps from the scabbard, eager to vindicateThe cause of the oppressed. A thousand yearsThe sun has witnessed in his daily courseThe tyranny of Rome, now crushed forever.The mighty mass of her usurped dominion,By its own magnitude at last dissevered,Is crumbling into fragments; and the shadesOf long-forgotten generations shriekWith fiendish glee over the yawning gulfOf her perdition.High in his gilded chariot, decked in robesOf broidered purple, and with laurel crowned,Rode the triumphant conqueror, in his handThe emblems of his power. The capitalOf his wide empire was inflamed with zealTo do him honor and exalt his praise.The world was at his feet; his sovereign willNone dared to question, and his haughty wordWas law to nations. Yet his heart was troubled.In the dim distance he discerned the flightOf Freedom, on swift pinions heraldingEnfranchisement to the oppressed of earth.He knew the feeble tenure of dominionBased on allegiance with reluctance paid;And read the future overthrow of RomeIn the unyielding spirit of his victim.Uncovered in the sun, weary and faint,Bowed to the earth with chains of ravished gold,With feet unsandaled, walked Zenobia,Slave to the craven tyrant's cruelty.Neither her peerless beauty, nor her sex,Nor yet her grievous sufferings could meltThe despot's stony heart. She, who surpassedHer conqueror in all the qualitiesOf head or heart which crown humanityWith nobleness and high preëminence —She, whose misfortunes in a glorious cause,And not her errors, had achieved her ruin —Burdened with ignominy and disgraceFor her resplendent virtues, not her crimes—She who had graced a palace, and dispensedPardon to penitence, reward to worth,And tempered justice with benevolence —Wickedly torn from her exalted station,Now walked a captive in the streets of Rome,E'en at the feet of the oppressors steeds.Yet was her spirit all untamed. DisdainStill sat upon her countenance, and breathedUnmeasured scorn upon her persecutors.The blush of innocence upon her cheek,The burning pride that flashed within her eye,The majesty enthroned upon her brow,Told, in a language which the tyrant felt,That her unconquered spirit soared sublimeIn a pure orbit whither his sordid soulCould ne'er attain. Had he a captive ledSome odious wretch, whose sanguinary crimes,Long perpetrated under sanction of a strengthNo arm could reach, had spread a pall of mourningOver a people's desolated homes,He then had right to triumph o'er his victim.But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambitionHad led him to unsheath his victor swordAgainst a monarch whose distinctive swayRavished from Rome no tittle of her right;And, to augment the aggregate of wrong,That monarch was a woman, whose renown,Compared with his, was gold compared with brass.As o'er the stony street the captive pacedHer weary way before the victor's steeds,And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze,The look of calm defiance on her faceTold that she bowed not to her degradation.Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all,The billows of the mad excitement dashedAbout her, and broke harmless at her feet.Dim reminiscences of former daysBurst like a deluge on her errant mind;Leading her backward to the buried past,When in the artless buoyancy of youthShe sat beneath Palmyra's fragrant shadesAnd gleaned the pages of historic story,Red with Rome's bloody catalogue of wrong.Little she dreamed Palmyra's palacesShould e'er be scenes of Roman violence;Little she dreamed that hers should be the lot(A captive princess led in chains) to crownThe splendor of a Roman holyday.Alas! the blow she thought not of had fallen.A bloody struggle, like a dreadful dream,Had briefly raged, and all to her was lost,Save the poor grace of a degraded life.Her sun of glory was gone down in blood —The glittering fabric of her power despoiledTo swell the triumph of her conqueror.But in the wreck of her magnificence,With eye prophetic, she foresaw the ruinOf the proud capital of all the world.She saw the quickening symptoms of rebellionAmong the nations, and she caught their cryFor freedom and for vengeance!Hark! the GothIs thundering at the gate, His reckless swordLeaps from the scabbard, eager to vindicateThe cause of the oppressed. A thousand yearsThe sun has witnessed in his daily courseThe tyranny of Rome, now crushed forever.The mighty mass of her usurped dominion,By its own magnitude at last dissevered,Is crumbling into fragments; and the shadesOf long-forgotten generations shriekWith fiendish glee over the yawning gulfOf her perdition.

TEMPER LIFE'S EXTREMES

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH'Tis wise, in summer-warmth, to look before,To the keen-nipping winter; it is good,In lifeful hours, to lay aside some storeOf thought, to leaven the spirit's duller mood;To mould the sodded dyke, in sunny hour,Against the coming of the wasteful flood;Still tempering Life's extremes, that Wo no moreMay start abrupt in Joy's sweet neighborhood.If Day burst sudden from the bars of Night,Or with one plunge leaped down the sheer abyss,Painful alike were darkness and the light,Bearing fixed war through shifting victories;But sweet their bond, where peaceful twilight lingers,Weaving the rosy with the sable fingers.

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15BY HENRY A. CLARK(Continued from page 136.)

CHAPTER V

The Revenge

The report of the pistol fired by Julia had also been heard upon the pirate brig. To Florette it gave assurance of the safety of the fair fugitive. The pirate sprang to his feet, forgetful of his wound, but fell back helpless upon the companion-way, and soon relapsed into his former thoughtful state, supposing the sound had come from the deck of the Raker, though it had seemed much too near and distinct to appear possible that such was the case.

The escape of Julia was not discovered until the following morning. The wrath of the pirate was fearfully vindictive. Even Florette became alarmed when he fiercely accused her of some share in the disappearance of the captive girl. This she tremblingly denied, suggesting the opinion that Julia must have jumped overboard, in her despair, induced by the threats of the pirate. The loss of the boat was also noticed, but not connected with the escape of Julia, it being supposed that it had been carelessly fastened. As a very natural consequence of his anger, the pirate sought some person on whom he could vent its fury.

"Call aft the other woman," shouted he, "unless she, too, has jumped overboard."

A grim smile was interchanged between the men who heard this order. John's true sex had not been long kept concealed after he had reached the pirate brig, and he had nearly fallen a victim to the rage the unpleasant discovery excited in the men, but his ludicrous and abject expressions of terror, though they awoke no emotions of pity, yet excited the merriment of his captors, and turned their anger into laughter. A man's garments were thrown to him, in which he speedily equipped himself, being indeed in no slight degree relieved by the change. Since that time he had kept himself as much aloof as possible from the crew, anxiously and fearfully expectant of some sudden catastrophe, either that his brains would be blown out without affording him an opportunity to expostulate, or that he would be called upon to walk the plank.

He was roused by a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder.

"O dear, don't," cried John.

"The captain has sent word for'ard arter you, and faith ye had betther be in a hurry, for he's a savage when he's mad."

"O! now I've got to do it."

"Do what?"

"Why walk the plank to be sure."

"Arrah, jewel! don't be onaisy now."

"Wont I's, don't you think?"

"Not a bit of it, darling. I think he will be afther running you up to the yard-arm."

"But I can't run up it."

"Ha! ha! but come along, honey."

Half dragging John after him, the sailor led him to the quarter-deck.

"Here's the lady, captain, an' faith she's a swate one."

The truth of the case had already been explained to the pirate.

"You cowardly fool," said he, "did you expect to escape by such a subterfuge? Pat, run him up to the yard-arm."

"Yes, captain, and that will be a relaif to him, for he was mighty afraid he'd have to walk the plank."

"He was? well then he shall."

The vindictiveness of the pirate commander, who had only changed the mode of John's death because he thought that by so doing he should render it more fearful and bitter to the victim, was the means of saving the poor cockney's life. So do revenge and malice often overreach themselves.

A long plank was laid out over the side of the brig and John commanded to walk out on it. He showed a strong disinclination to obeying, but a huge pistol placed against his forehead quickly influenced his decision, and with a cry of anguish he stepped out upon it. As the board tipped he turned to spring back to the brig, but slipping up, fell upon the board, which he pulled after him into the water.

"Fool," cried the captain to one of his men, "what did you let the board loose for, he will float now till the chase picks him up – fire into him."

A dozen balls were fired at John, and it seems he was hit, for he let go the board and sunk.

"There, captain, he's done for."

The brig by this time had reached a considerable distance from the place where John had been committed to the deep, and when he rose to the surface, as he soon did, he was out of danger from their shot.

"O dear!" cried he, "I shan't ever get ashore; I never could swim much."

The waves threw him against the plank.

"O! a shark! a shark!" shouted John, "now don't;" and he grasped hold of the plank in a frenzy of fear. He soon discovered the friendly aid it would afford him, and held on to it with the tenacity of despair.

In less than half an hour the Raker came up. John was noticed from its deck, and a brawny tar seizing a rope and taking two or three turns of it round his left arm sprang overboard to rescue the half unconscious cockney.

As the sailor seized him, John, supposing it to be a shark, uttered a loud cry and lost all sensation. In this condition he was hauled up to the deck of the privateer, where, upon recovering his senses, he found to his great surprise and joy, that instead of being in the belly of some voracious fish, like Jonah of old, he was in safety, and surrounded by the crew of his former vessel, the Betty Allen, including his master.

The poor fellow was severely wounded by a pistol shot, in the arm, but regardless of this he was wild in his demonstrations of joy, especially when told that his young mistress had also escaped.

Captain Greene found that he had gained little, if any, upon the pirate during the night, and became convinced that he must again commence firing upon her, trusting to some lucky ball to carry away a spar, or failing, to allow the villains to escape the punishment they so richly deserved, not only for their inhuman treatment of the crew of the Betsy Allen, but doubtless for numerous other crimes committed upon the seas, as savage in their conception, and more successful in their execution.

The long gun was again uncovered, and a shot dispatched from its huge portals after the pirate brig. The first ball fired fell short of the brig, striking the water directly in its wake, and ricochetting again threw up the water beyond it.

A succeeding ball, however, did some execution, crashing through her top-gallant forecastle, but without in any degree lessening her speed. As every fire from the Raker lessened her speed, Capt. Greene became exceedingly anxious that no balls should be thrown away, and commanded Lieut. Morris to point the gun, having more confidence in his skill than in that of the gunner. The young officer aimed the gun carefully, and as it was fired three cheers arose from his crew, as they perceived the pirate's mizzen-mast fall away.

"She is ours," cried the lieutenant.

"Stand by, men, to take in sail," shouted the captain. "We will draw near enough," continued he to Morris, "to fire into her at our leisure, a pirate is not entitled to a more honorable warfare, and he seems also to greatly outnumber us in men."

As the privateer approached the pirate they could not but admire the singular beauty of her build. She rose and fell upon the waters as gracefully as a free and wild ocean bird. The long red lines of her port-holes swept with a gentle curve from stem to stern, and her stem was so sharp that the bowsprit seemed rather to terminate than to join it. Twelve carronades occupied a double row of port-holes, and the deck seemed crowded with men, all armed with cutlases and pistols.

"A formidable looking set," said Captain Greene, as he laid aside his glass, "keep the gun lively."

An ineffectual fire opened upon the privateer from the pirate, but though they had a swivel of pretty heavy calibre, turning on its axis amidship in such a manner as to menace at will each point of the horizon, it was evident that its force was far less than the long gun of the privateer.

A well aimed shot brought down the pirate's fore topsail-yard, which hung in the slings, and succeeding shots did much injury to her masts and rigging, and at length the main-topmast fell over the side.

The scene on board the pirate, during this unequal warfare, was one approaching perplexity and disorder. Their commander stood by the helm, gazing at the privateer, his brow clouded with angry thought, and giving little heed to the movements of his crew. He was aroused from his abstraction by the voice of one of his officers.