THE LAST BANQUET OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
[“Antony, concluding that he could not die more honourably than in battle, determined to attack Cæsar at the same time both by sea and land. The night preceding the execution of this design, he ordered his servants at supper to render him their best services that evening, and fill the wine round plentifully, for the day following they might belong to another master, whilst he lay extended on the ground, no longer of consequence either to them or to himself. His friends were affected, and wept to hear him talk thus; which when he perceived, he encouraged them by assurances that his expectations of a glorious victory were at least equal to those of an honourable death. At the dead of night, when universal silence reigned through the city—a silence that was deepened by the awful thought of the ensuing day—on a sudden was heard the sound of musical instruments, and a noise which resembled the exclamations of Bacchanals. This tumultuous procession seemed to pass through the whole city, and to go out at the gate which led to the enemy’s camp. Those who reflected on this prodigy concluded that Bacchus, the god whom Antony affected to imitate, had then forsaken him.”—Langhorne’s Plutarch.]
Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array,
O stately Alexandria!—yet the sound
Of mirth and music, at the close of day,
Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around
O’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 shed
O’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’d
O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene
Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d
In godlike beauty, awfully serene.
Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined
Round that luxurious board!—in every face
Some 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 bloom
May still survive the wearers—and the rose
Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb
Receives the mighty to its dark repose!
The day must dawn on battle, and may set
In death—but fill the mantling wine-cup high!
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet
Lend her one hour for parting revelry.
They who the empire of the world possess’d
Would 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 inspire
The 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 left
A lingering light around thee: in decay
Not less than kingly—though of all bereft,
Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away.
Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate
A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate!
But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made
His 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 stain
Of error be upon thee, there is power
In thy commanding nature, which shall reign
O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour;
And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye
E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.
Thine aspect, all impassion’d, wears a light
Inspiring and inspired—thy cheek a dye,
Which rises not from joy, but yet is bright
With the deep glow of feverish energy.
Proud siren of the Nile! thy glance is fraught
With an immortal fire—in every beam
It darts, there kindles some heroic thought,
But wild and awful as a sibyl’s dream;
For thou with death hast communed to attain
Dread knowledge of the pangs that ransom from the chain.[118]
And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o’er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent
With 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’d
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;
Scarce his charm’d heart believes that power can be
In 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 survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound
Strange 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 skies
Your 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 field
Hath yielded palms to us: one effort more!
By one stern conflict must our doom be seal’d.
Forget not, Romans! o’er a subject world
How 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 light
The 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 sound
Of gathering tumult?—Near and nearer still
Its murmur swells. Above, below, around.
Bursts a strange chorus forth, confused and shrill.
Wake, Alexandria! through thy streets the tread
Of steps unseen is hurrying, and the note
Of 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 strain
Hath more mysterious power, and birth more high;
And the deep horror chilling every vein
Owns them of stern terrific augury.
Beings of worlds unknown! ye pass away,
O ye invisible and awful throng!
Your echoing footsteps and resounding lay
To Cæsar’s camp exulting move along.
Thy gods forsake thee, Antony! the sky
By that dread sign reveals thy doom—“Despair and die!”[119]
[118] Cleopatra made a collection of poisonous drugs, and being desirous to know which was least painful in the operation, she tried them on the capital convicts. Such poisons as were quick in their operation, she found to be attended with violent pain and convulsions; such as were milder were slow in their effect: she therefore applied herself to the examination of venomous creatures; and at length she found that the bite of the asp was the most eligible kind of death, for it brought on a gradual kind of lethargy.—See Plutarch.
“To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword; despair and die!”
Richard III.