Arsaces. 



Zeiiob. 



Tamara. 

 Zenob. 



5^0 ZCNOBIA. 



And ever will be so in life or death. 

 May happy auguries still strew your path 

 With flowers, and smiling fortune plume your helm. 

 Zenob. Dejoces — or I do forget. 

 Bejoces. 'Tis so ; 



The poor colleague of Egypt's victor, Zabdas. 

 Brave empress, nobly hast thou play'd thy part 

 This day. By bright Apollo, how I laugh 

 To think of baffled Rome. The casket hers — 

 A useless bauble — the rich jewel gone. 

 Yes, 'tis a tale for future years to tell 

 How my imperial day-star sunk to rise. 

 Fled to return, and with augmented power 

 To vindicate her claim to half earth's sway. 

 Despite of Rome's proud heart. 



Thanks for this comfort. 

 Much, much I need it. 



Sister ! 



Oh, Arsaces, 

 Some bitter, bitter drops will intermix 

 With the pure fountain of each joy, and snakes 

 Of hidden grief enwreath the verdant flowers 

 That line its bank. Longinus ! Oh that name 

 Bites like a serpent's tooth. The flrst of men. 

 Him that so often by his wisdom saved me 

 From Rome and from myself, I leave behind, 

 Ungrateful that I am. 

 Arsaces. Yet 'twas his will. 



His stubborn will (therefore no fault of thine). 

 To stay and prove the conqueror's mercy. 

 Zenob. So 



He pleaded ; but he hopes to serve my cause 

 With faithful duty, strong, like love, as death. 

 Mercy ! What mercy ? He is lost. 

 Arsaces. Not so. 



Hope better things. 

 Tama. Think not upon the lost. 



Be grateful for the saved. Look round and mark 

 How many friends remain. 

 Thto. And faithful too. 



Solyma. Yes, royal mistress, faithful to the death — 

 Faithful whate'er betide. 

 Tama- Take comfort, sister. 



The children — think of them — they too are saved. 

 Arsaces. And I henceforth am ever at thy side. 

 Zenob. Good prince, your love, unshaken 'midst my wreck. 

 Gilds t'le sad twilight of this parting hour. 

 And must I quit thee, oh Palmyra, thee 

 Whom I have half created, whom, like him. 

 The sculptor, who first formed and then adored 

 The woman-statue in his mind conceived, 

 I made my idol ? 

 Dejoces. What a crash was that ! 



Tama. Some earthquake speaks the widow'd city's pangs 

 At this drear parting. 

 Arsaces. 'Tis the engin'ry 



Of Rome, which thunders on the northern rampart. 

 What storm of iron balls the Balearic 



