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 hills
Of the Campagna, poured a flood of light
Upon the slumbering city, summoning
Its teeming thousands to the festival.
A playful breeze, rich-laden with perfume
From groves of orange, gently stirred the leaves,
And curled the ripples on the Tiber's breast,
Bearing to seaward o'er the flowery plain
The rising peans' joyful melodies.
Flung to the wind, high from the swelling dome
That crowned the Capitol, the imperial banner,
Broidered with gold and glittering with gems,
Unfurled its azure field; and, as it caught
The sunbeams and flashed down upon the throng
That filled the forum, there arose a shout
Deep as the murmur of the cataract.
In that spontaneous outburst of applause
Rome spoke; and as the echo smote the hills
It woke the slumbering memory of a time
When Rome was free.
A trumpet from the walls
Proclaimed 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, dressed
With 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 succeeded
By 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 train
Of Rome's nobility. In one long line
The army last appeared in bright array,
With banners high displayed, filling the air
With songs of victory. The pageant proud
Quickened remembrance of departed days,
And warmed the bosoms of the multitude
With deep devotion to the commonwealth.
High in his gilded chariot, decked in robes
Of broidered purple, and with laurel crowned,
Rode the triumphant conqueror, in his hand
The emblems of his power. The capital
Of his wide empire was inflamed with zeal
To do him honor and exalt his praise.
The world was at his feet; his sovereign will
None dared to question, and his haughty word
Was law to nations. Yet his heart was troubled.
In the dim distance he discerned the flight
Of Freedom, on swift pinions heralding
Enfranchisement to the oppressed of earth.
He knew the feeble tenure of dominion
Based on allegiance with reluctance paid;
And read the future overthrow of Rome
In 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 melt
The despot's stony heart. She, who surpassed
Her conqueror in all the qualities
Of head or heart which crown humanity
With nobleness and high preëminence —
She, whose misfortunes in a glorious cause,
And not her errors, had achieved her ruin —
Burdened with ignominy and disgrace
For her resplendent virtues, not her crimes—
She who had graced a palace, and dispensed
Pardon 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. Disdain
Still sat upon her countenance, and breathed
Unmeasured 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 sublime
In a pure orbit whither his sordid soul
Could ne'er attain. Had he a captive led
Some odious wretch, whose sanguinary crimes,
Long perpetrated under sanction of a strength
No arm could reach, had spread a pall of mourning
Over a people's desolated homes,
He then had right to triumph o'er his victim.
But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambition
Had led him to unsheath his victor sword
Against a monarch whose distinctive sway
Ravished 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 paced
Her weary way before the victor's steeds,
And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze,
The look of calm defiance on her face
Told that she bowed not to her degradation.
Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all,
The billows of the mad excitement dashed
About her, and broke harmless at her feet.
Dim reminiscences of former days
Burst like a deluge on her errant mind;
Leading her backward to the buried past,
When
