POETRY.

THE MARRIAGE OF TIRZAH AND AHIRAD.—(Gen. vi. 3.)

(From Lord Macaulay's Miscellaneous Writings.)

It is the dead of night:

Yet more than noonday light

Beams far and wide from many a gorgeous hall.
Unnumbered harps are tinkling,
Unnumbered lamps are twinkling,

In the great city of the fourfold wall.
By the brazen castle's moat,
The sentry hums a livelier note.
The ship-boy chaunts a shriller lay
From the galleys in the bay.

Shout, and laugh, and hurrying feet
Sound from mart and square and street,
From the breezy laurel shades,

From the granite colonnades,

From the golden statue's base,

From the stately market-place,
Where, upreared by captive hands,
The great Tower of Triumph stands,
All its pillars in a blaze

With the many-coloured rays,

Which lanthorns of ten thousand dyes

Shed on ten thousand panoplies.

But closest is the throng,

And loudest is the song,

In that sweet garden by the river's side,
The abyss of myrtle bowers,

The wilderness of flowers,

Where Cain hath built the palace of his pride.
Such palace ne'er shall be again
Among the dwindling race of men.
From all its threescore gates the light
Of gold and steel afar was thrown;
Two hundred cubits rose in height
The outer wall of polished stone.
On the top was ample space
For a gallant chariot race.
Near either parapet a bed

Of the richest mould was spread,

Where, amidst flowers of every scent and hue,
Rich orange trees, and palms, and giant cedars grew.

In the mansion's public court

All is revel, song, and sport;

For there, till morn shall tint the east,
Menials and guards prolong the feast.
The boards with painted vessels shine;
The marble cisterns foam with wine.
A hundred dancing girls are there
With zoneless waists and streaming hair;
And countless eyes with ardour gaze,

And countless hands the measure beat,
As mix and part in amorous maze

Those floating arms and bounding feet.
But none of all the race of Cain,

Save those whom he hath deigned to grace
With yellow robe and sapphire chain,
May pass beyond that outer space.
For now within the painted hall
The Firstborn keeps high festival.
Before the glittering valves all night
Their post the chosen captains hold.
Above the portal's stately height
The legend flames in lamps of gold:
"In life united and in death

May Tirzah and Ahirad be,

The bravest he of all the sons of Seth,

Of all the house of Cain the loveliest she."

Through all the climates of the earth
This night is given to festal mirth.
The long-continued war is ended:
The long-divided lines are blended.
Ahirad's bow shall now no more
Make fat the wolves with kindred gore.
The vultures shall expect in vain
Their banquet from the sword of Cain.
Without a guard the herds and flocks
Along the frontier moors and rocks,
From eve to morn may roam:
Nor shriek, nor shout, nor reddened sky,
Shall warn the startled hind to fly
From his beloved home.

Nor to the pier shall burghers crowd
With straining necks and faces pale,
And think that in each flitting cloud
They see a hostile sail

The peasant without fear shall guide
Down smooth canal or river wide

His painted bark of cane,

Fraught, for some proud bazaar's arcades,
With chestnuts from his native shades,
And wine, and milk, and grain.
Search round the peopled globe to-night,
Explore each continent and isle,
There is no door without a light,
No face without a smile.

The noblest chiefs of either race,

From north and south, from west and east,
Crowd to the painted hall to grace

The pomp of that atoning feast.
With widening eyes and labouring breath
Stand the fair-haired sons of Seth,
As bursts upon their dazzled sight
The endless avenue of light,

The bowers of tulip, rose, and palm,
The thousand cressets fed with balm,
The silken vests, the boards piled high
With amber, gold, and ivory,
The crystal founts, whence sparkling flow
The richest wines o'er beds of snow,
The walls where blaze in living dyes
The king's three hundred victories.
The heralds point the fitting seat
To every guest in order meet,
And place the highest in degree
Nearest the imperial canopy.

Beneath its broad and gorgeous fold,

With naked swords and shields of gold,

Stood the seven princes of the tribes of Nod.

Upon an ermine carpet lay

Two tiger cubs in furious play,

Beneath the emerald throne where sat the signed of God.

Over that ample forehead white

The thousandth year returneth.
Still, on its commanding height,
With a fierce and blood-red light,
The fiery token burneth.
Wheresoe'er that mystic star
Blazeth in the van of war,

Back recoil before its ray

Shield and banner, bow and spear,
Maddened horses break away
From the trembling charioteer.
The fear of that stern king doth lie
On all that live beneath the sky;

All shrink before the mark of his despair,

The seal of that great curse which he alone can bear.

Blazing in pearls and diamonds' sheen,
Tirzah, the young Ahirad's bride,
Of humankind the destined queen,

Sits by her great forefather's side.
The jetty curls, the forehead high,
The swan-like neck, the eagle face,
The glowing cheek, the rich dark eye,
Proclaim her of the elder race.
With flowing locks of auburn hue
And features smooth, and eye of blue,
Timid in love as brave in arms,
The gentle heir of Seth askance
Snatches a bashful, ardent glance
At her majestic charms;

Blest when across that brow high musing flashes
A deeper tint of rose,

Thrice blessed when from beneath the silken lashes

Of her proud eye she throws

The smile of blended fondness and disdain
Which marks the daughters of the house of Cain.

All hearts are light around the hall
Save his who is the lord of all.
The painted roofs, the attendant train,
The lights, the banquet, all are vain.
He sees them not. His fancy strays
To other scenes and other days.
A cot by a lone forest's edge,

A fountain murmuring through the trees,

A garden with a wild flower hedge,

Whence sounds the music of the bees.
A little flock of sheep at rest

Upon a mountain's swarthy breast.
On his rude spade he seems to lean
Beside the well-remembered stone,

Rejoicing o'er the promise green

Of the first harvest man hath sown.

He sees his mother's tears;

His father's voice he hears,

Kind as when first it praised his youthful skill.
And soon a seraph-child,

In boyish rapture wild,

With a light crook comes bounding from the hill,
Kisses his hands and strokes his face,
And nestles close in his embrace.

In his adamantine eye

None might discern his agony;

But they who had grown hoary next his side,
And read his stern dark face with deeper skill,
Could trace strange meanings in that lip of pride,
Which for one moment quivered and was still.

*

No time for them to mark or him to feel

Those inward stings; for clarion, flute, and lyre, And the rich voices of a countless quire, Burst on the ear in one triumphant peal. In breathless transport sits the admiring throng As sink and swell the notes of Jubal's lofty song.

There paused perforce that noble song;
For from all the joyous throng,

Burst forth a rapturous shout which drowned
Singer's voice and trumpet's sound.

Thrice that stormy clamour fell,

Thrice rose again with mightier swell.
The last and loudest roar of all

Had died along the painted wall.

The crowd was hushed; the minstrel train
Prepared to strike the chords again;
When on each ear distinctly smote
A low and wild and wailing note.
It moans again. In mute amaze
Menials, and guests, and harpers gaze.
They look above, beneath, around,
No shape doth own that mournful sound.
It comes not from the tuneful quire;
It comes not from the feasting peers;
There is no tone of earthly lyre

So soft, so sad, so full of tears.
Then a strange horror came on all
Who sate at that high festival.
The far-famed harp, the harp of gold,
Dropped from Jubal's trembling hold.
Frantic with dismay, the bride
Clung to her Ahirad's side.

And the corpse-like hue of dread

Ahirad's haughty face o'erspread.

Yet not even in that agony of awe

Did the young leader of the fair-haired race

From Tirzah's shuddering grasp his hand withdraw,

Or turn his eyes from Tirzah's livid face.

The tigers to their lord retreat,

And crouch and whine beneath his feet.
Prone sink to earth the golden-shielded seven.
All hearts are cowed, save his alone
Who sits upon the emerald throne;

For he hath heard Elohim speak from heaven.
Still thunders in his ear the peal;
Still blazes on his front the seal:
And on the soul of the proud king
No terror of created thing