"From this tree it was that the Voice came which spake of old
to Iskander (Alexander the Great), saying, as an oracle,
'Iskander indeed cometh into India, but goeth from thence into
the Land of Darkness.'"--_Apocryphal History of Alexander the
Great._
The sun is bright, the air is bland,
The heavens wear that stainless blue
Which only in an Orient land
The eye of man may view;
And lo! around, and all abroad,
A glittering host, a mighty horde--
And at their head a demigod
Who slays with lightning-sword!
The bright noon burns, but idly now
Those warriors rest by copse and hill,
And shadows on their Leader's brow
Seem ominous of ill:
Spell-bound, he stands beside a tree,
And well he may, for through its leaves
Unstirred by wind, come brokenly
Moans, as of one that grieves!
How strange! he thought:--Life is a boon
Given, and resumed--but _how_? and _when_?
But now I asked myself how soon
I should go home agen!
How soon I might once more behold
My mourning mother's tearful face;
How soon my kindred might enfold
Me in their dear embrace!
There was an Indian Magian there--
And, stepping forth, he bent his knee:
"Oh, king!" he said, "be wise!--beware
This too prophetic tree!"
"Ha!" cried the king, "thou knowest, then, Seer,
What yon strange oracle reveals?"
"Alas!" the Magian said, "I hear
Deep words, like thunder-peals!
"I hear the groans of more than Man,
Hear tones that warn, denounce, beseech;
Hear--woe is me!--how darkly ran
That stream of thrilling speech!
'Oh, king,' it spake, 'all-trampling king!
Thou leadest legions from afar--
But Battle droops his clotted wing!
Night menaces thy star!
"'Fond visions of thy boyhood's years
Dawn like dim light upon thy soul;
Thou seest again thy mother's tears
Which Love could not control!
Ah! thy career in sooth is run!
Ah! thou indeed returnest home!
The Mother waits to clasp her son
Low in her lampless dome!
"'Yet go, rejoicing! He who reigns
O'er Earth alone leaves worlds unscanned;
Life binds the spirit as with chains;
Seek thou the Phantom-land!
Leave Conquest all it looks for here--
Leave willing slaves a bloody throne--
Thine henceforth is another sphere,
Death's realm, the dark Unknown!'"
The Magian paused; the leaves were hushed,
But wailings broke from all around,
Until the Chief, whose red blood flushed
His cheek with hotter bound.
Asked, in the tones of one with whom
Fear never yet had been a guest--
"And when doth Fate achieve my doom?
And where shall be my rest?"
"Oh, noble heart!" the Magian said,
And tears unbidden filled his eyes,
"We should not weep for thee!--the Dead
Change but their home and skies:
The moon shall beam, the myrtles bloom
For thee no more--yet sorrow not!
The immortal pomp of Hades' gloom
Best consecrates thy lot.
In June, in June, in laughing June,
And where the dells show deepest green,
Pavilioned overhead, at noon,
With gold and silken sheen--
These be for thee--the place, the time;
Trust not thy heart, trust not thine eyes,
Behind the Mount thy warm hopes climb,
The Land of Darkness lies!"
Unblenching at the fateful words,
The Hero turned around in haste--
"On! on!" he cried, "ye million swords,
Your course, like mine, is traced;
Let me but close Life's narrow span
Where weapons clash and banners wave;
I would not live to mourn that Man
But conquers for a grave!"