The Last Banquet of Antony and Cleopatra

Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array,O stately Alexandria!--yet the soundOf mirth and music, at the close of day,Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far aroundO’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall,In gay magnificence the feast was spread;And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall,A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shedO’er many a column, rich with precious dyes,That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies.

And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’dO’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d sceneCalm and majestic rose, by art array’dIn godlike beauty, awfully serene.Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclinedRound that luxurious board!--in every faceSome shadow from the tempest of the mind,Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace,Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth,But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth.

Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloomMay still survive the wearers--and the rosePerchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tombReceives the mighty to its dark repose!The day must dawn on battle, and may setIn death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high!Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yetLend her one hour for parting revelry.They who the empire of the world possess’dWould taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.

Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien,And read their annals on that brow of care!Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been:Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair.Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspireThe buoyant energies of days gone by;There is delusion in its meteor fire,And all within is shame, is agony!Away! the tear in bitterness may flow,But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe.

Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame,O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow,To that ascendant and undying name,Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now.Thy glory is departed, but hath leftA lingering light around thee: in decayNot less than kingly--though of all bereft,Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away.Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elateA deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!

But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath madeHis desolation--thou art by his side,In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d,To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride.Imperial being! e’en though many a stainOf error be upon thee, there is powerIn thy commanding nature, which shall reignO’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour;And the dark beauty of thy troubled eyeE’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.

Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a lightInspiring and inspired--thy cheek a dye,Which rises not from joy, but yet is brightWith the deep glow of feverish energy.Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraughtWith an immortal fire--in every beamIt darts, there kindles some heroic thought,But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream;For thou with death hast communed to attainDread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.

And the stern courage by such musings lent,Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throwsThe grandeur of a regal spirit, blentWith all the majesty of mighty woes:While he, so fondly, fatally adored,Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,Till scarce the soul that once exulting soar’dCan deem the day-star of its glory set;Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can beIn sovereign fate, o’er him thus fondly loved by thee.

But there is sadness in the eyes around,Which mark that ruin’d leader, and surveyHis changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profoundStrange triumph chases haughtily away.“Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries;“Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!Ere sunset gild once more the western skiesYour chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep;While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea,And the red bowl again is crown’d--but not for me.

“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er,O victors of Philippi! many a fieldHath yielded palms to us: one effort more!By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d.Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject worldHow royally your eagle’s wing hath spread,Though, from his eyrie of dominion hurl’d,Now bursts the tempest on his crested head!Yet sovereign still, if banish’d from the sky,The sun’s indignant bird, he must not droop--but die.”

The feast is o’er. ’Tis night, the dead of night--Unbroken stillness broods o’er earth and deep;From Egypt’s heaven of soft and starry lightThe moon looks cloudless o’er a world of sleep.For those who wait the morn’s awakening beams,The battle-signal to decide their doom,Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;--Rest that shall soon be calmer in the tomb;Dreams dark and ominous, but there to cease,When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.

Wake, slumberers! wake! Hark! heard ye not a soundOf gathering tumult?--Near and nearer stillIts murmur swells. Above, below, around.Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the treadOf steps unseen is hurrying, and the noteOf pipe, and lyre, and trumpet, wild and dread,Is heard upon the midnight air to float;And voices, clamorous as in frenzied mirth,Mingle their thousand tones, which are not of the earth.

These are no mortal sounds--their thrilling strainHath more mysterious power, and birth more high;And the deep horror chilling every veinOwns them of stern terrific augury.Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,O ye invisible and awful throng!Your echoing footsteps and resounding layTo Cæsar’s camp exulting move along.Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the skyBy that dread sign reveals thy doom--“Despair and die!”

“To-morrow in the battle think on me,And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!”Richard III.