VI. · Section 2

VI.

Commotion hovers with her dark wide wings, O’er Persia’s stately city; there she brings Her sister, wild Amaze; each dweller’s soul There, owns those kindred demons’ joint control. On every form, on every busy mien, Nought but one mixt expression there was seen; But that expression told of all the train Of throbbing passions that usurp the brain. 270 There, you might trace young joy, but also there Spoke something like the reign of fear, of care, Of wonder, of confusion: sight and speech, Like freezing streams, seem’d half bound up in each.

As they pour’d from their houses, like the bees That leave their hives, and throng the fragrant trees, The only sound that fell upon the ear, Was (faintly mutter’d) “Ismael is near!” ’Till, as the news gain’d ground, the clamours rise, And “Ismael! Ismael!” rend the list’ning skies. 280 Some fling the high gates open--some loud cry, “Perish the proud Alvante;” while they fly To seek the palace, and the court to force, And send th’ usurper on his long, last course.

The gen’ral shouts, the long and deaf’ning din, Alvante heard, his stately halls within: He started up in wonder and alarm; The flashing sabre found his giant arm. “Hark! hark! methought I heard that hated name, “What, is it Ismael?--hark! again--the same.” 290 Then his friend Muly rush’d within that room, Trembling his form, and pale as cygnet’s plume His vet’ran cheek:--‘Fly, fly, ere yet too late, ‘The clam’rous throng are at the palace gate; ‘Thine head they swear’--(hark, hark, again that roar!)-- ‘Shall pay for all the streams of kindred gore ‘Thou’st caus’d to flow; in vain we’ve tried t’assuag ‘Their treasonous tumults, and their guilty rage. ‘They cry that Ismael’s bands are sweeping now, ‘In swift procession, o’er yon mountain’s brow. 300 ‘O fly, O fly to shield thy regal form, ’Till lull’d the beating dangers of the storm,-- ‘Haste to Armenia, that e’er loyal land ‘Will yield my sultan many a mighty band; ‘Haste, haste, O haste!’--“And whither should I fly? “Here in his courts must king Alvante die; “King am I now, and Death will lose his sting, “E’en ’mid his grasp, to think I die a king.” ‘And think’st thou, if thou tarriest here, thy fate ‘Will be in all the royalty of state? 310 ‘That thou’lt fall nobly? No, a slave thou’lt die, ‘Brought out to grace thy victor’s victory; ‘To feast his minions with thy dying wo; ‘(Hark, hark, the rebels burst the gates below!) ‘This door will lead us hence,--away, away, ‘Lost is your life, your kingdom, if you stay! ‘But hold!--I have it!--cast these garments on, ‘Muffle your face, and mingle with the throng; ‘Then unperceiv’d escape, and haste to gain ‘The troops of conquest in Armenia’s plain; 320 ‘But now away.’ Though more than mortal brave, A natural wish his life, his realms to save, Alvante felt. If tarrying here, he knew That he must die, and die ignobly too. If for awhile he went, Armenia might, By fortune aided, place him in his right.

He instinctively clasp’d the muffling vest In many a fold around his face and breast, And both are now disguis’d! one moment more, And they have past yon gold-enamell’d door, 330 And mingled with the throng--and to the sky, Now, they have join’d the gen’ral clam’rous cry. A leader mark’d their garb--their mien--their tone-- Again he turn’d to view them--they are gone.