The bloody contest at the storming point was terrible in its effects, both upon the invaders and the besieged; for the falling masses of stone buried in one indiscriminate grave both friends and foes. At length, the towers becoming useless from the walls being lowered beneath the level of the drawbridges, they, with the engines and machines were overthrown on either side of the causeway, and the famed Macedonian Phalanx passed the breach,—but the dead and dying, with their upraised spears, and broken shafts in their writhing bodies, formed for a time a barrier against the advance of a division of horse,—they were recalled by the shrill trumpets, while the pioneers levelled the path of death;—a second troop of Infantry passed on to the support of the first, who were now in desperate conflict on the walls and breach with the opposing ranks of the despairing Tyrians, many of whom empaled themselves on the triple-spears of the Phalanx:—when on a preconcerted signal from an upreared flag (for the now loud thunder and deafening shouts and shrieks deadened all trumpet-sounds to the distant soldiery) the two battalions of Infantry on the ruins opened to the right and left,—and Alexander,—mounted on Bucephalus, and with the Standard inscribed Granicus, just snatched from his banner-bearer, and at the head of his Officers and Cavalry, flew like "fiery Mars" to the summit of the breach! At that instant a terrific flash rent the dark storm-clouds, and a shaft from the wild tempest struck to the ground the marble Statue from the apex of the Temple,—the entablature was sundered as by an earthquake! Alexander at that moment,—with his bright corslet and white-plumed helm reflecting back the lightning glare,—his inspiring face and standard turned to his troops,—his unsheathed and glittering sword pointing to the foe,—his white and noble war-steed with storm-scattered mane, and upreared head and feet, as if spurning the dying bodies beneath his proud hoofs, yet feeling his master's spirit, and anxious for the plunge amid the living,—at that moment—Alexander appeared the Hero of the World! He might have remained so,—but the moment passed and for ever!—he descended, as it were, from his moral elevation, like an avalanche of crime upon the already blood-stained vale beneath! His example was followed by Hephæstion, old Clytus, Parmenio and the troop of future kings,—horsemen,—the triple-guarded Phalanx,—cohorts of archers,—"the whole camp, pioneers and all;"—fire, spear, and sword were carried into every quarter of the capital. While the Metropolis was wrapt in flames by the foot-soldiery, and murdered women and children fell in every street,—the Conqueror and his Cavalry attacked the avenues leading to the Temple,—every pathway to that Edifice was defended with a patriotic devotion, and a Religious fanaticism!
While thus every passage was nobly defended, and attention directed to those quarters, the few Sidonian Galleys received on board their living freights,—Families,—Men, Women, and Children,—cleared the harbour unobserved, and upon the gradual lessening of the storm of elements, they reached the open Sea in safety:—Thus were the Prophesied "gleanings" of the Nation rescued!
Azelmic, Priests, and People disputed with devoted heroism the area to the Temple of the kingdom—it was passed, but over the dead bodies of hundreds of the defenders,—every step to the platform of the edifice was dyed with human gore;—ascending the steps over his crimson pathway, Alexander, followed by Hephæstion and his favourites, reached the chief entrance, through which Azelmic had rushed into the interior of the Temple,—the Conqueror instantly dismounted (followed by his officers), and pursued the apparent Fugitive, in order to capture with his own hands the Monarch of the Nation;—he entered the sacred court of worship over the dead bodies of mangled priests,—when suddenly the Standard of the Granicus dropped from his hand, and was stained and effaced with sacrilegious blood,—while himself and his officers fell back in Religious awe, and were transfixed with heroic admiration!—for the Last King of Tyrus, so far from retreating, had sprung, sword in hand, upon the Altar of the Nation,—and throwing his despairing arms around the image of Apollo, resolved to defend—even to the death—the enchained Statue of his Country and his God!
Which was the Hero then?—the Patriot or the Invader?
So noble a picture of Patriotism, the Conqueror had in vain looked for in the pages of the Iliad,—the inspiring Volume to invasions and his victories. Amid all the Sons of Priam and of Troy, there was not one Azelmic;—and his true glory was indeed brilliant, for Alexander's was dimmed and lost before it;—like a Planet of the Night, when the star-discovering shade of Earth, is dispelled by the dawning Sun!
The Patriot's life and liberty were granted by the Conqueror, whose youth and native heroism sympathized with such devoted and gallant bearing. Would that the same mercy had been extended to the brave Tyrians! The Capital had fallen,—but Conflagration and wild Slaughter raged and ranged in every corner of the Metropolis;—Massacre and Rapine roamed at large unchecked by "pity or remorse,"—but sustained, and hallooed on by the frantic yells of demoniac Revenge! Thousands were slain in defending the walls, streets, and Temples. Eight thousand Women and Children fell by the sword alone, while nearly an equal number were buried beneath the falling ruins, or perished in the flames! Thirty-two thousand of the inhabitants were made prisoners,—the walls were razed, and every building burnt or levelled to the ground. Thirty thousand of the captives were sold as slaves, and dispersed into the Asiatic Countries. Alexander then committed an act which should,—it has—"damned him to everlasting fame,"—placed upon his once bright shield, the canker-rust of infamy,—and which must increase from the gathered curses of posterity! After the surrender,—when even Slaughter and Rapine—the scarlet sins of unrighteous war—had ceased their havoc and brutality,—and the patriotic prisoners were ranged and numbered,—this Demon of Macedonia selected two thousand of the chief Citizens, and, as if in mockery of their Goddess of the Nation—Astartē,—whose emblem was the Cross,—commanded that they should be Crucified! It was accomplished,—the setting Sun upon that Last Day of Tyrus, cast his expiring gaze upon a Nation's Crucifixion! Avenues of Crosses were upraised with frantic victims, along the shores of the mainland; and in the streets of the Isle,—or grouped upon the mounds of ruins, walls, and Temples! Such an instance of cold-blooded barbarity cannot be equalled in the annals of ancient crime,—except—in its repetition by the same ruthless murderer, after the patriotic defence of Oxus in India.
Alexander, as he stood upon the breached-wall of Tyrus, could have been the Saviour of a People; but, in his descent, he became like Lucifer,—a demon devoted to passion and to crime! Let no voice applaud him after he plunged from that wall,—the bloody stream beneath was the Rubicon of his fame and glory;—he passed it,—it could never be retraced. Oh! let no author,—the instrument of Intellect—betray his high duty and uphold the deeds of Invaders or Conquerors, be they of the ancient or the modern world:—let him stigmatize crime and injustice by their proper names, belong they to Macedonia, or to any other Nation existing in our own times:—ay!—although the home of our ancestors should be rebuked, for then only will the hearths of their descendants be free from blame, and avoid that desolation, which the contrary course must (the North-Star is not more true) engender for future time and action!—But, if the historic pen in its duty to posterity, must be employed in recording the annals of savage warfare and invasion, let it only praise the true Patriots and Defenders of their Native-land,—be they of remote antiquity in either hemisphere,—or the Israel-warriors of Asiatic mountains, snow-crowned Passes, or of the Vale of Cashmere;—the noble and chivalric spirits of Circassia; the natives of Algeria,—or the impotent People of that land, claiming Confucius for its Philosopher,—where thousands have been slain, and not one record made of the desolated hearts of the Mother, Widow, or the Orphan! Let us teach ourselves the truth,—open our own hearts, and minds to receive the Religious impress of its power,—ingraft it in the growing intellect of our children, that they may, as a necessity, teach it to their descendants,—that one Azelmic, or Montezuma,—Alfred, or William Tell,—are worth the entire host of Alexanders, Cortezes, Danish Conquerors, or tyrannic Gieslers!
Our humble, yet fervent description of the Conquest of Tyrus would fail of our hearted intent, if any other sentiment than the above could be derived from it. That terrible event was consummated on the 5th day of Elul—the sixth month of the Hebrews and Phœnicians;—which, by the present computation of time, would place the Destruction of the Tyrian Nation upon the twentieth day of August, 332 years before the Christian Æra.