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ZENOBIA. 



Tama. She is right. 



Rome's legions — I discern the Roman standard 

 Amidst the trees, in ambush. 

 Dejoces. (Edepol ! 



Cursed be the tyrant's craft ! 

 Arsaces. I feared this chance. 



And warned thee, dearest queen, of secret traitors 

 Within thy council. 

 Zenob. So Longinus warn'd me ; 



But all regret is bootless. Take ray cloak, 

 Tirza. Dejoces, bid our little troop 

 Fall into line before me. Quick ! My crown ! 

 The triple diadem of Araby, 

 Syria, and Egypt, by my own arms won. 

 "fiswell — I'll die a queen! 

 Ai-saces. What means Zenobia ? 



Tama. O, sister! 

 Arsaces. Be not rashly desperate. 



Tama. Oh heavens ! I hear again the long-drawn sighs 

 Of that unearthly horn. They seem to come 

 From yon gaunt cedar's thunderstricken boughs. 

 Through which eve's star now darts its glittering beam. 

 Be warned and brave not, with this puny band. 

 Yon legion. Mark, Dejoces, is it not 

 Clear on the standards — there — the sixteenth legion ? 

 Dejoces. It is. The " Invincible." Brave hearts, my heart 

 Yearns yet towards ye, comrades of ray youth. 

 Yon golden eagles never droop'd their wing 

 To raortal man. 

 Zenob. Yet may they quail to woman. 



It shall be tried, old warrior. 

 Arsaces. 'Tis sheer madness. 



^^i^^ "Dejoces. Nay, not a whit. The empress reasons well. 

 A sudden unexpected charge may break 

 The closing snare in which we are entrapp'd. 

 Delay it, and we're hopelessly enmesh'd. 

 Oh for one hour of fire-soul'd Zabdas now. 

 As when we drove the Roman garrison 

 From hundred-gated Thebes, and seated thee. 

 Sprung from her race, on Cleopatra's throne. 

 Zenob. It shall be so. Tamara, take my cloak. 

 Tama. Hast thou forgot thy Parthian male disguise? 

 Zenob. No ; that disguise some heaven-breath'd instinct taught. 

 On Parthian warriors our last hopes now rest. 

 I'She withdraws from the group to a little distant eminence for the purpose of 



haranguing the Parthian cavalry). 

 Arsaces to (Tamara). .low beautiful she is ! With what a grace 

 One lifted hand urges th'excited group. 

 The other grasping her bright battle-axe. 

 See how the red beams of the setting sun 

 Plays like a star upon the polished cone 

 Of her Armenian casque, glitters along 

 The crooked crescent of her scimitar. 

 Brightens the bosses of her Caspian shield. 

 And flutters, rainbow-hued, like dying dolphins. 

 O'er the scale-arrnour which invests her limbs. 

 Meanwhile white Phlegethon in thunder paws 

 The plain impatient, and around her throws 



