'Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom passed away; He in the balance weighed, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud his robe of state; His canopy the stone; The Mede is at his gate, The Persian on his throne.' "Fancy conjures up to the south a small and compact body of Greeks: around them, at a distance, like vultures round a struggling carcase, hover bands of cavalry. Now, as a gap opens, they rush on; now, as the ranks close up, they melt away, shooting arrows as they fly, vengeful in their cowardice--it is the retreat of Xenophon and his gallant band. They encamp at Nimroud--as in his yesterday, so in our to-day, a mound smothering its own renown. "Northward again comes a mighty band: with careful haste they cross the rivers, and with confident step traverse the plain south. On the south-east plain, a legion of nations, golden, glittering, yet timorous, await their approach. Alexander, the hero, scatters dismay: assured of conquest ere he met the foe, he esteems the pursuit the only difficulty. On the one side, Asia musters her nations--Indians, Syrians, Albanians, and Bactrians--the hardiest population of her empire. Elephants and war-chariots are of no avail: the result was fore-written, and Darius foremost flies along the plain. "Faint, afar, we can see in the north-west Lucullus; and the arms of Rome float over the walls of Nisibis, (B.C. 68.) We may almost see the glorious array of Julian; hear him subduing his mortal pain; hear him pronounce, with well-modulated tones, one of the finest orations the world can record. We may see the timid Jovian skulking in his purple from the field he dared not defend in his armour. But again rise up the legions and the Labarum: Heraclius throws aside his lethargy; the earth drinks deep of gore, and Khosroo[15] is vanquished under our eyes. [15] He was subsequently murdered, A. D. 62. "The white and the black banners now gleam upon the field; the crescent flaunts on either side. One God, one faith--they fight for nought. Hell for the coward, paradise for the brave. Abou Moslem and Merwan. The earth, on the spot which had last drunk the red life-blood of Greek and Persian, now slakes its fill. Merwan flies with wondrous steps, but the avenger follows fast. He first loses his army on the Tigris; himself dies on the banks of the Nile: there perished the rule of the Ommiades. "The hordes of Timour now approach: their war-song ought to be the chorus of the spirits of destiny in _Manfred_-- 'Our hands contain the hearts of men, Our footsteps are their graves; We only give to take again The spirits of our slaves.'