The bannered hosts of Macedon stood arrayed in splendid might. Crowning the hills and filling the valleys, far and wide extended the millions in arms who waited on the word of the young Alexander—the most superb array of human power which sceptered ambition ever evoked to do its bidding.
That army was to sweep nations off the earth and make a continent its camp, following the voice of one whose sword was the index to glory, whose command was the synonym of triumph. It now stood expectant, for the king yet lingered.
While his war horse fretted at the gate, and myriads thus in silence waited his appearance, Alexander took his way to the apartment of his mother. The sole ligament which bound him to virtue and to feeling was the love of that mother, and the tie was as strong as it was tender.
In mute dejection they embraced; and Alexander, as he gazed upon that affectionate face, which had never been turned to him but in tenderness and yearning love, seemed to ask, “Shall I ever again behold that sweet smile?” The anxiety of his mother’s countenance denoted the same sad curiosity; and without a word, but with the selfsame feeling in their hearts, they went out together to seek the oracles in the temple of Philip, to learn their fate.
Alone, in unuttered sympathy, the two ascended the steps of the sacred temple and approached the shrine. A priest stood behind the altar. The blue smoke of the incense curled upward in front, and the book of oracles was before him.
“Where shall my grave be digged?” said the king; and the priest opened the book and read, “Where the soil is of iron, and the sky of gold, there shall the grave of the monarch of men be digged.”
To the utmost limit Asia had become the possession of the Macedonian. Fatigued with conquest, and anxious to seek a country where the difficulty of victory should enhance its value, the hero was returning to Europe. A few days would have brought him to the capital of his kingdom, when he fell suddenly ill. He was lifted from his horse, and one of his generals, unlacing his armor, spread it out for him to lie upon, and held his golden shield to screen him from the mid-day sun.
When the king raised his eyes and beheld the glittering canopy, he was conscious of the omen. “The oracle has said that where the ground should be of iron, and the sky of gold, there should my grave be made! Behold the fulfillment! It is a mournful thing! The young cypress is cut down in the vigor of its strength, in the first fullness of its beauty. The thread of life is snapped suddenly, and with it a thousand prospects vanish, a thousand hopes are crushed! But let the will of fate be done! She has long obeyed my behest! I yield myself now to hers! Yet, my mother!”
And the monarch mused in melancholy silence. At length he turned to his attendants and ordered his tablets to be brought; and he took them, and wrote, “Let the customary alms, which my mother shall distribute at my death, be given to those who have never felt the miseries of the world, and have never lost those who were dear to them;” and sinking back upon his iron couch, he yielded up his breath. They buried him where he died, and an army wept over his grave!
When the intelligence of the death of Alexander was brought to his mother, as she sat among her ladies, she was overwhelmed by anguish.