ZAMA.
I looked, and on old Zama's arid plain
Two chieftains stood. At distance ranged their hosts,
While they with flashing eye, and gesture strong,
Held their high parley. One was sternly marked
With care and hardship. Still his warrior soul
Frowned in unbroken might, as when he sealed,
In ardent boyhood, the eternal vow
Of enmity to Rome. The other seemed
Of younger years, and on his noble brow
Beauty with magnanimity sat throned;
And yet, methought, his darkening eye-ball said
"Delendo est Carthago."
Brief they spake,
And parted as proud souls in anger part,
While the wild shriek of trumpets, and the rush
Of cohorts rent the air. I turned away.
The pomp of battle, and the din of arms
May round a period well, but to behold
The mortal struggle, and the riven shield—
To mark how Nature's holiest, tenderest ties
Are sundered—to recount the childless homes,
And sireless babes, and widows' early graves,
Made by one victor-shout, bids the blood creep
Cold through its channels.
Once again I looked
When the pure moon unveiled a silent scene,
Silent, save when from 'neath some weltering pile
A dying war-horse neighed, in whose gored breast
Life lingered stubbornly, or some pale knight
Half-raised his arm, awakened by the call
Of his loved steed, even from the dream of death.
With stealthy step the prowling plunderer stalked,
The dark-winged raven led her clamorous brood
To their full feast, and on the shadowy skirts
Of that dire field, the fierce hyena rolled
A keen, malevolent eye.
Time sped his course.
Fresh verdure mantled Zama's fatal plain,
While Carthage, with a subjugated knee
And crownless head, toiled 'mid the slaves of Rome.
Once more I sought Hamilcar's awful son—
And lo! an exiled, and despised old man,
Guest of Bithynian perfidy, did grasp
The poison-goblet in his withered hand,
And drink and die!
Say! is this he who rent
The bloody laurel from Saguntum's walls?
That Eagle of the Alps, who through the clouds,
Which wrapped in murky folds their slippery heights,
Forced his unwieldy elephants? who rolled
Victory's hoarse thunder o'er Ticinus' tide?
And 'mid the field of Cannæ waved his sword
Like a destroying angel?
This is he!
And this is human glory!
God of Might!
Gird with thy shield our vacillating hearts,
That 'mid the illusive and bewildering paths
Of this brief pilgrimage, we may not lose
Both this world's peace, and the rewards of that
Which hath no shadow.
From this double loss,
This wreck of all probationary hope,
Defend us, by thy power.