Of conquering foes: and scoffing Idumæa
Grew pale: and haughty Philistina fell,
And Egypt with her hoary honors sank
Debased.1 But chiefly she, who on the rocks
Sate moated by the ocean waves, and seem'd
A God unto the nations, peerless Tyre,
Wither'd beneath the unsuspected notes,
Lone prophet, of thy awful harp. Long years
In beauty had she walk'd the waters: pride
Had deck'd her prow, and perfected her shape.
Her masts were cedars hewn on Lebanon,
Her oars were oaks of Bashan, and her boards
Of pine her sails were of Egyptian woof,
Twined blue and purple, and her mariners
From Zidon, Tyrian pilots at the helm.
Her merchants were the nations of the earth,
Tarshish and Tubal and the tents of Cush,
Damascus, Sheba, Araby the blest,
Asshur, and Dan, and Javan. And her freights Were treasures bought or won from every land: Horses and mules, silver and gold, and brass, Ebon and ivory and emeralds,
Coral and agate, finest flour of wheat,
Honey and oil and balm, and luscious wines,
And spices, cassia, nard, and frankincense,
And lambs and snowy fleeces, and the rams
Of Kedar, and embroider'd robes of blue,
And every rich, and every gorgeous thing.
Who might compare with thee, unrivall'd Queen?
Alas, alas! thy rowers in their pride
Have brought thee into perilous waters
Their skill and numbers for the Eastern blast
Through rent sails and through riven bulwarks sweeps:
And thy rich merchandise, the gather'd wealth
Of ages, cast into the boiling surge
Perfumes the storm with spices, robes the waves
With purple and with scarlet, and with pearls
And gold enriches the insatiate deep.
Nothing can save thee now.
Of lamentation from thy sinking crew,
Echo'd by wailing ships and weeping shores,
Rises to heaven; and on the billows float
Huge fragments scatter'd by the winds adrift,
Or cast by after tempests on the rocks,
Thy former throne, and now thy sepulchre.1
1 See Ezek. xxvi.-xxviii.
And shall the wrathful lightnings that have scathed
All nations, and the chosen land of heaven
Leave thee unhumbled, Asshur? Thou hast grown
As grows the stately cedar fed with dews,
And nourish'd by the snows and rivulets,
Upon the peaks of Lebanon, until
It rises terribly pre-eminent,
And o'er the forest casts its haughty shade.
But soon the storm fell on thee. Vainly now
Thy iron roots are wrapt about the rocks,
For thou art scorch'd and blasted by the bolts
Of heaven, and hewn by many a ruthless arm
Of those who underneath thy branches slept
Ungrateful: now the lair of prowling beasts,
Or resting-place of cruel birds of prey.1
Cease thy dark harpings, prophet of the Lord,
Cease, for thy voice and stormy visions cast
Their desolations on the soul of him
Who hears entranced, yet cannot choose the while
But listen. Hark! the prophet lays his hand
Once more upon the trembling chords, and lo,
A valley,1 desolate as Tophet, fill'd
With bones innumerable, sere and bleach'd,
As though the sudden pestilence of God
Had fallen on some mighty host, and men
Had left them in the sun and winds to rot.
Death brooded o'er them. But a voice from heaven
Startles the awful silence: and behold
A shaking, and the bones, bone to his bone,
Together framed the perfect skeleton;
And sinews cover'd them, and flesh and skin,
The very lineaments of life.
The prophet's voice falls on them: and the winds
Breathed like the quickening Spirit of the Lord
Above the lifeless slain: and lo, they rose
An army numberless, equipp'd for fight.
Hope rises from despair, and life from death.
Ha! the dense clouds are breaking: mighty winds
Have rent a pathway through their gloom, and far
Across the everlasting mountains gleam
The faint streaks of the morning. What if soon
One more prophetic vision scatters woe
On Meshech and the prince of Tubal's host,1
The last stupendous sacrifice of war
Reeking to heaven from Armageddon's vale:
It passes like a haggard dream away,
And in the far horizon (joy for thee,
Ezekiel, lonely watchman of the night)
Grow clearer and more clear the roseate hues
Of morning-land: and here and there peep forth
The stars in dewy paleness, soon to fade
Before the glory of the rising Sun,
Rising with healing in His wings. He comes,
And in the mellow light which ushers in
His advent, to thy searching ken, O seer,
Stand forth the turrets of His temple,2 built
Of goodlier stones, and bright with fairer light
Than Solomon in all his glory saw:
With holy courts, and incense clouds of praise,
And deep memorial rites. He comes, He comes,
With rushing wings, and calm crystalline throne:
The same who came to thee by Chebar's banks
And lighten'd thy lone exile: now the earth
Shines with the beauty of His countenance,
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