ZliNOBIA. 



511 



Cranes and balistie pour. Nay, turn away. 

 Oh, hide it from her view. 

 Zeiiob. I will behold thee. 



Oh Tadmor, should Medusa make thy queen 



A wreck of stone like thee. Lo ! where it falls 



Midst cloudy whirlwinds of unnatural night. 



The glorious pinnacle of Sol's bright fane. 



And, oh dark augury, the sculptured arch 



Of Odenathus. See (like Phaeton's) 



Chariot and horses fall midst streams of sparks 



Struck from the splinter'd stone, and lurid light 



Of bullets burning with their rapid flight. 



Sculptures, and battered bronze, and mouldings carved. 



And clouds of dust. The gorgeous structure sinks 



At last, and Rome sits throned upon the wreck. 



Dejoces. Away ! Delay is ruin. 



Arsaccs. ' Fly, O queen ! 



Zenob- (hiding her face with her hands). 



Oh cruel fates — and must I see this sight, 

 ' And fly, and leave it unrevenged ? 



Arsaces. Dwell not upon it, but away, dear queen ; 

 Aurelian's Arab cavalry may else 

 Cut oflF our flight. 



Dejoces. Spur each swift courser home ! 



On Uke the wind to Zelebi ! The fords 

 Of Euphrates may there be safely crossed. ^Exeunt. 



StuNE III. — The Desert, near the fords of the Euphrates at Zelebi. The 

 tents and standards of Sapor and the Parthians seen on the opposite banks of 

 the river. Zenobia, Tamara, Arsaces, Dejoces enter the stage on Jiorse- 

 back, and pull up in front. 



Dejoces. Bravely done ! 



We've distanc'd them at last. The Roman blood-hounds. 



At fault, may snuff the mocking breeze in vain. 

 Or fasten, madden'd, on each other's throats. 

 Arsaces. " Spes" be henceforth our war-cry. Won 's the goal. 



And we may pluck the wreath. How fares the queen ? 

 Zenob. Well. Yet 1 know not what presentient gloom 



Comes like a thunder-cloud o'er the bright ray 



Of hope's so recent sunshine. Soft ! Look there ! 



Sure 'twas the flash of arras ! There, 'mid the dates 



That line the river's banks. 

 Arsaces. Not so, my queen ; 



'Tis Sapor's arm'd encampment you behold. 



Sec, how my countrymen throng yonder hill 



To welcome our approach. And, if my eyes 



Krr not, I sec the king of kings himself. 



Sapor, my uncle, in his palanquin. 



He beckons — see — between yon boles of palms. 



Rejoice, Zenobia ! Soon my future bride. 



Supported by his squadrons and this arm. 



In triumph shall return to widow'd Tadmor 



And thread in joyful pomp her long arcades. 

 Zenob. (still looking towards the wooded banks of the rivet-). 



'Tis true, 'tis true. O, my prophetic thoughts ! 



Some genius whisj)erc'd that ill- fate was near. 



They're waiting, prince. 

 Arsaces. Who mean vi : 



