Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine - Volume 54, No. 338, December 1843. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      "Oh! best and noblest," quoth the king, "thou ne'er shalt rue the day,

      When to Cambyses' spearman poor thou gav'st thy cloak away;

      The faithless eye each well-known form and feature may forget,

      But the deeds of generous kindness done—the heart remembers yet.

      "To-day thou art a wanderer sad, but thou shalt sit, erelong,

      Within thy fair ancestral hall, and hear the minstrel's song;

      To-day thou art a homeless man—to-morrow thou shalt stand—

      A conqueror and a sceptred king—upon thy native land.

      "A cloud is on thy brow to-day—thy lot is poor and low,

      To all who gaze on thee thou seem'st a man of want and wo;

      But thou shalt drain the bowl erelong within thy own bright isle,

      A wreath of roses round thy head, and on thy brow a smile."

      And he called the proud Otanes, one of the seven was he

      Who laid the Magian traitor low, and set their country free;

      And he bade him man a gallant fleet, and sail without delay,

      To the pleasant isle of Samos, in the fair Icarian bay.

      "To place yon chief on Samos' throne, Otanes, be thy care,

      But bloodless let thy victory be, his Samian people spare!"

      For thus the generous chieftain said, when he made his high demand,

      "I had rather still an exile roam, than waste my native land."

      Oh, "monarchs' arms are wondrous long!"3 their power is wondrous great,

      But not to them 'tis given to stem the rushing tide of fate.

      A king may man a gallant fleet, an island fair may give,

      But can he blunt the sword's sharp edge, or bid the dead to live?

      They leave the strand, that gallant band, their ships are in the bay,

      It was a glorious sight, I ween, to view that proud array;

      And there, amid the Persian chiefs, himself he holds the helm,

      Sits lovely Samos' future lord—he comes to claim his realm!

      Mœandrius saw the Persian fleet come sailing proudly down,

      And his troops he knew were all too few to guard a leaguer'd town;

      So he laid his crown and sceptre down, his recreant life to save—

      Who thus resigns a kingdom fair deserves to be a slave.

      He calls his band—he seeks the strand—they grant him passage free—

      "And shall they then," his brother cried, "have a bloodless victory?

      No—grant me but those spears of thine, and I soon to them shall show,

      There yet are men in Samos left to face the Persian foe."

      The traitor heard his brother's word, and he gave the youth his way;

      "An empty land, proud Syloson, shall lie beneath thy sway."

      That youth has arm'd those spearmen stout—three hundred men in all—

      And on the Persian chiefs they fell, before the city's wall.

      The Persian lords before the wall were sitting all in state,

      They deem'd the island was at peace—they reck'd not of their fate;

      When on them came the fiery youth4—with desperate charge he came—

      And soon lay weltering in his gore full many a chief of fame.

      The outrage rude Otanes view'd, and fury fired his breast—

      And to the winds the chieftain cast his monarch's high behest.

      He gave the word, that angry lord—"War, war unto the death!"

      Then many a scimitar flash'd forth impatient from its sheath.

      Through Samos wide, from side to side, the carnage is begun,

      And ne'er a mother there is seen, but mourns a slaughter'd son;

      From side to side, through Samos wide, Otanes hurls his prey,

      Few, few, are left in that fair isle, their monarch to obey!

      The new-made monarch sits in state in his loved ancestral bow'rs,

      And he bids his minstrel strike the lyre, and he crowns his head with flow'rs;

      But still a cloud is on his brow—where is the promised smile?

      And yet he sits a sceptred king—in his own dear native isle.

      Oh! Samos dear, my native land! I tread thy courts again—

      But where are they, thy gallant sons? I gaze upon the slain—

      "A dreary kingdom mine, I ween," the mournful monarch said,

      "Where are my subjects good and true? I reign but o'er the dead!

      "Ah! woe is me—I would that I had ne'er to Susa gone,

      To ask that fatal boon of thee, Hystaspes' generous son.

      Oh, deadly fight! oh, woeful sight! to greet a monarch's eyes!

      All desolate—my native land, reft of her children, lies!"

      Thus mourn'd the chief—and no relief his regal state could bring.

      O'er such a drear unpeopled