Approach of the Romans—Their procession—Omens of the city’s downfall—The Romans’ song—Raising the tents—Titus addresses the army—Hymn—An evening scene—Digression—Titus summons a council—His speech—Trajan’s address—Placidus—His motive in joining the army—His advice—Titus’s return—His promise—The officers regale themselves—Placidus retires to his tent—His wish—His slave’s attention—Morning—The army assembled—Placidus approaches to the walls—The priest—His death—Treachery of the Jews—Retreat of Placidus—Discovery and death of Paulina—Placidus’s justification to his comrades, and woeful end.

Jerusalem! no more above thy plains
Shall feather’d warblers echo forth their strains,
No more around thy lordly turrets fly,
E’en now they haste, and skin the lowering sky:
For now, like clouds, the armies shine afar,
And speak the horrors of approaching war;
In phalanx strong they move in firm array,
And burn with ardor for the coming fray;
With double speed towards the town they haste,
Resolv’d to die, or yon proud city waste.
Before the army, stately Titus speeds,
Surrounded by a thousand ambling steeds,
Moves like a god, and high above the rest
Superior exalts his golden crest;
His noble courser, of unequall’d height,
Rears his broad front, and glories in the weight.
Then come twelve thousand of great Rome’s allies,
Who view with joy th’ already conquer’d prize;
Without one fear of death, they hail the town,
And see before them plunder and renown;
Their lofty forms, encas’d in shining mail,
Their native standards swelling in the gale.
Next, forty thousand pikemen march’d along,
Behind—their horse, eleven thousand strong.
Destructive engines then came rattling slow,
To hurl the stone, or bend the fatal bow.
And see (as if aspiring to the sky)
The Roman eagles mounted ride on high;
Their golden wings, resplendent in the sun,
Seem but to boast the murders they have done;
(So the great master bird, whose form they bear,
Unconquer’d flies, and all devoid of fear,
With iron pinions pounces on his prey,
And bears it bleeding on his homeward way;
Where in full shares he tears the murder’d food,
And proudly spreads it to his eager brood;
Then claps his wings, and vaunting of his force,
Full at the sun he drives his headstrong course.)
Then came of trumpeters a spreading row,
Their lofty strains bid ev’ry bosom glow;
While e’en the coursers feel the welcome sound,
And dance aloft, or paw the dusty ground.
Next Roman squadrons, press’d by squadrons still,
O’erspread the vale, and stretch the distant hill;
Battalion to battalion still succeeds,
Yet others rise, and steeds still follow steeds;
Till, like the corn on which they heedless tread,
In countless numbers o’er the plains they spread.
Grand was the view, but to the trembling foe
It shew’d but conquest, slavery, and woe.
Jerusalem! thy fatal hour is near,
In vain alike your courage and your fear,
These are the armies long foreseen of old,
And this the end thy prophets e’er foretold.

High in the heav’ns, above the temple’s spire,
Is seen a two edg’d sword of glowing fire:
Dark clouds surround, the sun withdraws his light,
A blazing comet, beautiful and bright,
Rides thro’ the sky, and o’er the fated town
Contrasts the darkness of Jehovah’s frown.
And hark! the foe with fearless haste draws nigh,
With martial songs they rend the cloudy sky;
Thus ran the strain, while each, as if by choice,
To aid the song, uplifts his manly voice.

Freedom is the Roman’s word,
Freedom draws the Roman’s sword,
Freedom leads him to the fight,
Freedom bids him shun the flight.

Freedom is the Roman’s boast,
Freedom is the Roman’s toast,
Freedom ’tis for which we stand,
Freedom and our native land.

Rome o’er all the world shall reign,
Or our bodies strew the plain;
Unto death ourselves we give,
But oar children free shall live.

Nothing shall our arms impede,
Onward spur each foaming steed;
Banish ev’ry thought of love,
And to glory swiftly move.

Lame was the verse, but ev’ry bosom join’d,
And look’d on death and victory combin’d;
They rear their walls, the well-form’d camp they fix,
Whilst all the troops together toiling mix.
Full in their view the mant’ling towers rise,
Well stock’d with foes, to guard against surprise;
They see the Romans mow their rip’ning grain,
Their forests levell’d, and their cattle slain.
But now the trumpets sound, the task is done,
The loosen’d coursers neighing, gaily run;
Again the trumpets sound—the chiefs obey,
The summon’d army stands in bright array.
Now Titus comes—around each legion hies,
His ready joy stands glist’ning in his eyes—
“Aye, this looks well (he cries), it glads my heart
To see each Roman stedfast to his part;
Yon frowning walls, impregnable to view,
Must fall and crumble, if you still are true;
And that great God! whose wond’rous work we are, [9]
Can end, at once, our labour and the war.
Though thousands here believe in fabled tales,
All other gods to Him are creeping snails
By his great power form’d—and at a thrust
He hurls them, moulder’d, to their native dust;
Then to His throne alone our vows we’ll pay,
And raise to heav’n our grateful ardent lay.”
Amidst the noisy din of clanking steel,
The wond’ring army as by instinct kneel,
And with their leader thus their vows reveal.

Only mighty, good, and great,
Who, enthron’d in matchless state,
Now reigns on high,
And thro’ the sky
Deals with unerring hand thy peace or curse,
Attend our pray’r,
Banish our care,
And we will e’er thy wond’rous deeds rehearse.

God of heaven! God of earth!
Without ending, without birth,
Our victory
Must come from thee,
From thee alone we have our life and breath.
Oh! hear us now,
To thee we bow,
Now give us victory, or give us death.

Pour thine anger on the foe,
Give our armies all to know,
It is by thee
That we are free;
And if we here must end our mortal race,
Permit us then
To die like men,
Oh! save our rising offspring from disgrace.

’Tis finish’d, (and the sun from out the west
Sheds his bright rays on ev’ry plated breast.)
Still prostrate on the ground, in doubting awe,
’Till waken’d by the thrilling trump of war:
Then starting up, each draws his eager blade,
And pass before the king [12] in grand parade,
Who, like a god, in burnish’d glory stands,
And calmly issues forth his just commands.
Yet still the sun, as joyful at the sight,
Gleams on their mail, and shames the coming night;
E’en Titus sees his long protracted stay,
And tells his fortunes by the ling’ring day.
The troops, their martial exercises o’er,
Expend their tales, or sing of days of yore,
Lay by their arms, and, careless of their ends,
Speak of their wives, their babes, or distant friends;
Short-sighted fools!—but wherefore should ye learn
That thousands here shall never more return?
Why should a fatal foresight damp our peace,
And all our short-liv’d miseries increase?
No—Providence has clos’d the book of fate,
And sight of future only comes too late:
We see not half the woes with which we cope—
They come, they overwhelm us—still we hope—
Yet woes come on, we drain the bitter cup;
But still we hope, and hoping bears us up.
So the poor trav’ller, o’er the dreary way,
Dark night o’erspreads—yet still he looks for day;
The forked lightnings flash before his eyes,
And torrents pour upon him from the skies;
The thunder rolls, the clouds are bursting fast,
Yet on he plods, and thinks it will not last;
He slips—he falls—amidst the tang’ling brake,
But not e’en this his hoping soul can shake;
Torn, wet, bespatter’d, out again he creeps,
And, weary’d on the bank, succumbent sleeps.
But to return—a council Titus calls,
To talk of peace, or fell the hardy walls.
First, Titus rises from his gilded throne,
And with a careless greatness all his own,
Bespeaks him thus: “Brave princes, Romans, men,
Who dare e’en brave the tyger in his den,
Your persevering courage meets my praise;
And could my words your well-known value raise,
The wond’ring world should echo with your names,
Old mew respect you, and the Jewish dames,
Whose spouses fall by you, your wrath approve,
Forget their wrongs, and only think to love;
All future ages will your deeds enroll,
And tell our victories from pole to pole.
But to our subject—Certain headstrong Jews
Have leap’d to power, and that pow’r abuse;
From conquer’d cities hither have they fled,
And threat to pour destruction on our head.
But let them threat, our armies, void of fear,
Grown great by conquest, challenge them e’en here:
Then princes say, shall we proceed with war,
Or make a peace, and so our arms withdraw?
What thinks my brother? he is cool tho’ brave,
Speak, Trajan, speak, your counsel let us have!”
Trajan arose:—“Do we or not love Rome?
We do, and punish all who dare presume
To mock that love, or of vain greatness boast:
Our conq’ring deeds are spread along each coast,
Our cheerful squadrons for the field prepare,
And willing all to die, they greatly dare.
Then think, my comrades, what would be their woe
If they return, and leave the vaunting foe;
Think how we all should lose our well-got fame,
And Jews and Romans join to tell our shame.
Observe, my friends, within the city’s verge
Dark clouds surround, and suck the tinted surge;
The thunders burst, whilst famine hoarsely sings,
And dark oppression claps his iron wings.
He who would sue for peace from such as these,
Or wish return to foul dishonor’d ease,
A coward I pronounce, and doubly base,
Will gain but hatred, and to Rome disgrace.”
So spake they round, till all but one had said,
Who, ’midst the numbers, hid his drooping head;
By name Placidus, Roman, brave and young,
Of noble mien, fair face, and gentle tongue.
Within his heart, young Cupid held his reign,
He lov’d a maid, and was belov’d again;
But ah! her parents would their love divide,
In vain she strove her rising love to hide,
They saw—and to another made her bride:
But bride alone she was, for on that day,
When all beside herself was free and gay,
The marriage rites scarce finish’d by the priest,
And vassals bustled for the promis’d feast,
The maiden fled, and to her what befell,
No one could dare suppose, no one could tell.
The fond Placidus wip’d his tearful eye,
Join’d in the war, and only sought to die;
To die with glory as a Roman ought,
For this he conquer’d and for this he fought.
And yet the fates denied him even this,
He wish’d for death, but death was too much bliss:
In vain he singly fac’d a line of foes,
In vain he fell—his faithful servant rose,
And sav’d a life, which yielded nought but woes.

Within the tent he heedless stands aloof,
Entranc’d from all but Titus’s reproof:
“Great sir (he cries) the world is nought to me,
And I’m content, if native Rome be free:
These are our foes; and ’tis a Roman’s pride
(For which what thousands of our friends have died)
To strive with all who would our pow’r withstand,
Or mar die honor of our native land.
Then let us on, and quell these daring fools,
Nor talking stand, nor calmly wait for rules;
I, with my band, will call them to the fight,
And hilt to hilt will quickly prove our right:
But if, like cowards, they the combat shun,
Or beaten by our army basely run,
Pursue them to the walls, our fortune try,
And nobly enter, or as nobly die.
There raise our banners in their very jaws,
Or fall together in the common cause.”
Each breast with double fury feels inspir’d,
No tongue but with Placidus’ praise is fir’d;
Titus himself with noble envy swells,
The man gives way, but yet the king rebels,
And thus he speaks: “Thy words and deeds are great,
But we are men, then wherefore tempt our fate:
He is but fool who of his lot complains,
Yet greater far is he who life disdains;
They only noble are whose deeds are good,
Whose virtues have the shocks of fate withstood,
Who fight their country’s battles as their own,
And die to gain them victory alone.
If such thy wish, and such thy pious thought,
If with such Roman aims thy breast is fraught,
Thy daring soul the giddy height shall soar,
Till, fully cloy’d, it drops to mount no more.
Yet if you meet that death you wildly seek,
And with bright honor’s scars thy frame grows weak,
Remember Titus, call him to thy side,
(He will not mock thy zeal, nor proudly chide,)
Pour in his friendly bosom all thy wrongs,
The fatal cause that now thy woe prolongs;
Repose in him, as friend, thy last request,
Or aught to give thy parting spirit rest;
And here he swears in face of all—of thee
To ’tend thy wish, whatever it may be.”
With heart o’erfill’d the lone Placidus bow’d,
And silent mix’d among the list’ning crowd.

Now round the tent the flowing goblet moves,
Some pledge their friends, and some their distant loves;
Nought but full pleasure can their hearts approach,
While flask by flask the sparkling wine they broach;
Glee, mirth, and laughter, with each bowl increase,
And ev’ry thought of bloodshed feels release.

Not so Placidus, destitute of joys,
He seeks his tent, and shuns their lively noise;
There sits him down, while on his mournful face
The love-lorn pearly shower falls apace.
Oft on his lost Paulina’s name he calls,
Oft casts his eyes around the strengthen’d walls,
Forebodings pleasing on his spirits flock,
He longs for death, nor fears the dreadful shock:
“But oh! (he cries) were fair Paulina here,
And with her love my dying hour would cheer,
I then resign’d should close my eyes to rest,
Shed my last fleeting breath upon her breast;
For her blest safety all the gods implore,
And haste contented to the dismal shore.
In vain my wish!—My faithful slave, draw nigh,
Let me have music—wherefore dost thou sigh;
You only know my grief, my gallant boy,
And thy soft tales alone e’er yield me joy;
For when I look, or hear thy soft’ning strains,
My heart rebounds, and all my dreary pains
Retire in peace, and, like their subject mute,
Own the sweet magic of thy quiv’ring lute.
Strike—strike, my boy—attune thy keys anew,
Chaunt some fond lay of parted lovers true,
Let thy sweet music waft my soul above,
And with thy words remind me of my love.”
The lovely slave with cheerfulness obeys,
Sweeps o’er the strings, now loud—now softly plays;
Responsive through his heart the murmurs creep,
His grief is gone—and calmness lulls to sleep.
The slave with care his weighty helm removes,
And though a willing slave, a friend he proves;
O’er his succumbent frame he gentry bends,
Echos each sigh his tortur’d breast that rends,
Thinks on each woe by which his heart is torn,
And watches near him till the waking morn.

Now fill’d with war, he grasps his sword and shield,
To join the common bustle of the field;
Where Titus in his burning arms encas’d
(Each giddy thought of merriment eras’d)
Sends forth his orders with a gentle mien,
While bright anticipation cheers the scene.
Placidus comes, his foaming courser neighs,
Shakes his long mane, and shares his rider’s praise,
Who with a party, burning for the fray,
Towards the city takes his quick’ning way.
The Jews with expectation see him near,
The priests convene, and slay the lowing steer.
Not so the rebel chieftain’s artful bands,
They thirst for blood, and arm their eager hands.
Unmindful of the truce Placidus bears,
The stately walls soon throng with shafts and spears;
Yet still he hastens heedless to the walls,
Nor hosts of enemies his soul appals.
Great soul! no deep laid treachery he views,
And by the wall addresses thus the Jews:
“Attend my words—foes, Isr’alites, and men,
Brist’ling like tigers pant within their den,
When will ye own cool reason’s easy sway?
When join in peace, and shun the rude affray?
In vain I speak—you shake your gleaming swords,
Then hear from me the Roman monarch’s words:
Unless you open wide yon rusting gate,
Admit and hail him to the regal state,
Our ’vengeful army, with a mighty force,
Like rolling Tyber in its foaming course,
Shall wash away each vestige of your town,
And, ’midst the horror, bury your renown;
Not one shall live of sire, child, or dame,
But on your heads we’ll climb to peace and fame.”

A priest appears the hostile Jews among,
With peace and soft persuasion on his tongue,
Accedes to all the terms of Roman law,
And Titus owns, to shun the dreadful war.
Soon as his peace-fraught eloquence was done,
Ill fated man! his course on earth was run:
A harden’d rebel’s well-aim’d barbed dart
Rends his fine robe, and pierces to his heart.
“Woe to Jerusalem! (he calls aloud)
Thy end is come—observe, ye foolish crowd,
God by his prophets this thy fall foretold,
Be cruel still, and, if ye can, be bold;
For fall you must—the sword is pois’d on high,
Darkness overspreads and hides the shining sky”—
He stops—he strives—alas! can say no more,
And dying wallows in his smoking gore.
A joyful shout his last sad murmurs drown,
Placidus hears, and bends his brow to frown;
When swift as flashing lightnings ever sped,
Wing’d darts and jav’lins fly around his head.
His little army, planted thick around,
Return the show’r, and dying bite the ground.
Placidus views his comrades round him lie,
He bids the rest give back, and heaves a sigh;
Yet still they fall, the coward and the brave,
Till none are left but firm Placidus’ slave,
Who, when they mark his master for their prey,
Uplifts his shield, and turns each death away:
But ah! what fury glows in yonder crew,
Now flush’d with blood, their treachery pursue.
Thick fly the darts around the noble pair,
Who now like brothers in the danger share;
Yet fate omnipotent will e’en prevail,
And—(must I tell the sad, the dreary tale)—
A venom’d shafts more cruel than the rest,
Now takes its standing in the poor slave’s breast;
Sighing he falls, upon his bleeding friends,
With tears his master him alone defends.
Then mounts him moaning with him on the steed,
And spurs towards the camp with utmost speed;
Fatigued with toil, and heated with the rage,
Within his tent he rests his wounded page,
Extracts the dart, returns each rising groan,
And weeping feels the suff’rings as his own.
The youth in anguish bids him stop the tear,
And turn his thoughts to her he still holds dear;
While yet he speaks, his lightsome helm lays by;
Oh, heav’ns! what rapture strikes his master’s eye!
Amaz’d he stands, and views the smiling youth,
Who faintly utters thus the pleasing truth:
“In me the lost Paulina you behold,
The constant lover of Placidus bold,
You only my fond heart could ever gain,
For you I’ve suffer’d toil, now suffer pain;
For you a life of sweeten’d woe I’ve spent,
But heaven now a kind relief has sent;
My hopes, my fears, my earthly joys, are past,
Then on thy faithful breast I’ll breathe my last;
To guard your life I fought, and guarding fell,
Remember thy Paulina,—and farewell!”
Annihilation strikes the wond’ring chief,
And every sense with her is lost in grief,
Till in his tent, with Titus at their head,
His steel-clad comrades their refulgence shed:
With fell reproach to wound his ear they came,
To call him coward, and his flying blame.
“Oh! cease (he cried) your foul invectives spare,
Your eyes and tongues have own’d how much I dare;
But if unsatisfied you still remain,
Thus—thus—I dare ye singly to the plain.
’Twas not from hope of life, or paltry fear,
I flew to save the maid who now lies here;
You saw the youth with zealous ardor glow,
And shield me from each death-impending blow,
Beheld her burning with a passion pure,
Receive her death my safety to secure.
Think’st thou I could my brave defender see
Lie scarr’d with wounds, and those receiv’d for me:
Does your new faith such horrid doctrine teach?
Do your fam’d prophets such delusion preach?
Would you such notions into Rome instill?
Oh! let me first the tomb’s cold darkness fill.
My leader frowns—my tie to earth is broke,
And thus I willing hail the welcome stroke.”
Swift glides the steel, attacks the seat of life,
He calmly smiles amid the parting strife;
Salutes the corse—his frame no more respires,
Reclines his head, and on her breast expires!