The muffled clash of arms is past, as if it ne'er had been,
The light'ning scymitar has sheathed its terrors bright and keen;
Once bright, once keen, dark spots of blood bedim its lustre now,
And the sharpness of the tempered edge, is dull'd by many a blow.
Dark windings of the valley's bed! deep gorges of the Hill!
Bear further off that hurried tread,
Which wakes your echoes, low, and dead;
It fails and all is still.

Seems now as if no voice, no sound
Had ever rung, or moaned around,
Save perhaps, some lone bird's plaintive song,
Dying those wild, vast woods among;
Unanswered, for there lingers there
No joyous denizen of air,
And that one wand'rer flitting by,
Vainly, for sweet response might sigh,
Vainly might hope for some far strain,
To greet his warbled call again;
The breeze alone, shrill, dirge-like, sad,
Borne down those huge hills cedar-clad;
Deep hid in gloom, the rivers rush,
Pouring unseen, through reed and bush,
And (sign of utter solitude
Strange sounds of alien rill, and wood;
Woods, that are murmm'ring far away,
Rills, that glide off in foam and spray,
Through mist-like distance dim, and grey:
No other sounds erewhile were heard
Responsive to the lonely bird
But now, there is another tone,
Faint, as the river's faintest moan;
Low, as the West-wind's softest sigh,
Breathed sweet, from an unclouded sky;
Sad, as the last note's calm decay,
'Ere the wild warbler flits away;
Yet heard through all, those tones belong
Neither to stream, nor wood, nor song:
They speak of life, they bear a thrill
Not native to the wordless grove;
The whisper'd echoes of the hill,
The gushing waters, of the rill,
Have no such power to move
And there is life, a human form
Lies prostrate in the vale,
Like a reft victim of the storm,
Fall'n, bleeding, cold & pale
A stately form, though blighted now,
For grandeur dwells upon his brow,
And light shines in his lifted eye,
Which looks on Death unfearingly,
And o'er him, rests that placid grace,
Sign of high blood, and noble race,
His forehead bears a diadem
Burning with many an orient gem,
Stained ruddy now in blood
The starry robe, the flashing ring
The pearls in bright, and braided string
All speak of Persia's slaughtered King,
Stretched dying by the flood

Let not the glass be shaken
Life's sands, are ebbing low,
Let no loud winds awaken
The tide is past its flow

The swords that gleamed around him
Are reddened with his gore,
The traitor-hands that bound him
Will never bind him more

All Iran has forsaken
The God to whom she kneeled
This word no more can waken
Life on the battle-field

Not one, of all the glorious host
That bowed to Mithra's beam
Ere Persia's crown, was won, and lost,
By Issus fatal stream.
Not one, who by the Granicus
Poured forth their lives in blood;
Not one, who on Arbela's plain
In serried phalanx stood,
Not one remains to watch him now
Not one, to wipe his death-damp brow;
A monarch, left without a throne;
Pomp, might, dominion, all are gone,
A Son bereaved, a childless sire,
A King slain in the traitor's ire;
On the dark streamlet's wild bank lying,
Behold Darius lone, and dying.

Where, are now, his farewell dreams
Fading fast as daylight's beams?
O! where rests the monarch's heart
Now, when life, and glory part?
Sees he, with that glazing eye
Susa's gorgeous majesty?
All the light of regal halls
Where the gushing fountain falls?
All that rich, and radiant ring,
Once the Guard of Asia's king?
Gardens bright, where flower, and tree,
Waved in airs of Araby?
Whither, wings his spirit now?
Whither do his last thoughts flow?
All his mighty Empire, lies
Round him, as he droops & dies,
Ancient Egypt's, storied pride
With the dark Nile's pondrous tide;
India, rich in pearl and gem,
Hallowed by the Ganges' stream;
Syria with her tideless sea
Ever sleeping placidly
Desert lands, where wand'ring dwell
Ishmael's sons invincible,
Fall'n Palmyra, ruined Tyre,
Where the Grecian's flood of ire
Burst so full, and fierce and strong,
Rolled so dark, and deep along,
That no voice was left, to tell
How their sovereign city fell
As the prophet-doom was spoken,
Her robe is rent, her sceptre broken
Israel's God is Conqu'ror now
Crown, and plume have left her brow,
She rests silent by the sea
And so shall rest eternally.

O! not to these the monarch turns,
Not to glories past away;
Remembrance, in his spirit burns,
But not of power's decay.

A voice, still whispers in his ear
Of one his word betrayed,
And shadow-like, there lingers near
A form that will not fade.
The warning words of one who died,
That victim to a Tyrant's pride
Th' Athenian voice of prophesy,
" King my Avenger's step draws nigh
" The twilight of thy day is closing,
" And clouds are on its fall reposing.
" I hear the distant tempest sighing,
" In muttered murmurs, faint, and dying
" Asia, with sound of arms is shaken,
" But who will to the conflict waken?
" On rolls the foe, in living thunder,
" Insatiate for the dazzling plunder
" The steeled bands of Macedon,
" The hosts of Ammon's haughty son
" Shall crush thy pomp, shall spurn thy gems,
" Shall dye with blood, thine Empire's streams
" From Iran's throne, its Sovereign hurl;
" And Mithra's gorgeous standard furl:
" For ever furl, the sacred fire
" Shall never more to heaven aspire,
" Its light shall fade; its flames shall die,
" They own not immortality
" Another Altar shall arise
" Beneath the bright Earth's cloudless skies.
" King of the Earth, my course is run,
" Remember me, and Macedon. "
Thus boldly Caridemus spoke
Then sank beneath the tyrant's stroke:
But his last voice, to heaven ascends,
And heaven, to hear its accent bends.
From the dark tomb Darius gave,
There comes, no murmur of a slave,
The hallowed blood of
Liberty, sends from the
Dust its thrilling cry
Makes to the Gods its stern appeal,
And summons Grecia's sons of steel.

They come! They come!
A measured tread
Heavy, and clanking, deep, and dread,
Breaks up the hush, profoundly dead,
Of that wild, rocky vale
And gleaming lance, and flashing shield,
Their blood-gilt light and glitter yield,
And plumes are on the gale
Onward they come!
A noble host!
Now in the deep'ning valley lost,
Now through the wood-glade, glancing seen,
All mailed, and burnished, bright, & sheen
At length, around the king they pour,
Of Grecia's host, the pride and power.
Darius, lifts again his eye,
He sees not now, the placid sky,
For the green-wood, and lonely glen,
He views a throng, of steel armed men;
The hum, and clash swell stern, and loud,
And o'er him many a form is bowed,
And many an eye of eagle-light,
Meets piercingly his failing sight.
Tall warriors, on their lances leaning,
Plume shadowed brows of darkest meaning,
Surround the dying king
Their shapes before his vision swim
Ghost-like, and wand'ring, faint & dim,
Their voice, sounds like a sacred hymn,
Low, solemn, murmuring.
One kneels beside, and props his head,
And from the river's crystal bed,
Sprinkles his ghastly brow
The cool, clear water as it falls,
A moment, sight and speech recalls;
Darius knew his foe.
He clasped his hands, and raised his eyes
Bright with forgiveness to the skies,
He blessed his conqu'ror in that hour,
He prayed for added might, and pow'r,
To follow Asia's alien Lord,
And strengthen, his resistless sword:
Statira's shade is near him now
She lightens thus his kingly brow
And, with her calm, and holy smiles
Her Lord, and Captor reconciles
But soon, that gentle shade is gone,
And Vengeance lingers there alone;
A sudden gloom falls round the King;
Stern thoughts within his bosom spring,
The Rebel-Satrap, and his band,
Men, of unhallowed heart, and hand,
Before their slaughtered monarch rise,
His Curse falls on them ere he dies,
" Soldiers of Greece and Macedon
" For the dark deed, by Bessus done,
I leave revenge to Ammon's son.
He before whom all Persia fell
The Glorious, the Invincible
The lord of Cyrus solemn throne
The crowned in haughty Babylon,
I charge him, by his power, and pride,
To think how Iran's monarch died,
To turn the Traitor's blood stained sword,
Back to the bosom of its lord,
A bitter draught he gave his King,
His lips shall drain the same dark spring:
Warriors! I may not longer stay,
For Mithra calls my soul away!

He said, his pale lip ceased to quiver
His soul soared to its awful Giver,
The host stood round, all hushed, and still,
While dirge-like murmured, breeze, and rill.