Curses and quarrels and constricted blows, Threats and defiance and suburban war. Hark! the reiterated clangour sounds! Now murmurs, like the sea or like the storm, Or like the flames on forests, move and mount From rank to rank, and loud and louder roll, Till all the people is one vast applause. Yes, ’tis herself, Charoba—now the strife To see again a form so often seen! Feel they some partial pang, some secret void, Some doubt of feasting those fond eyes again? Panting imbibe they that refreshing sight To reproduce in hour of bitterness? She goes, the king awaits her from the camp: Him she descried, and trembled ere he reached Her car, but shuddered paler at his voice. So the pale silver at the festive board Grows paler filled afresh and dewed with wine; So seems the tenderest herbage of the spring To whiten, bending from a balmy gale. The beauteous queen alighting he received, And sighed to loose her from his arms; she hung A little longer on them through her fears: Her maidens followed her, and one that watched, One that had called her in the morn, observed How virgin passion with unfueled flame Burns into whiteness, while the blushing cheek Imagination heats and Shame imbues. Between both nations drawn in ranks they pass: The priests, with linen ephods, linen robes, Attend their steps, some follow, some precede, Where clothed with purple intertwined with gold Two lofty thrones commanded land and main. Behind and near them numerous were the tents As freckled clouds o’erfloat our vernal skies, Numerous as wander in warm moonlight nights, Along Meander’s or Cayster’s marsh, Swans pliant-necked and village storks revered. Throughout each nation moved the hum confused, Like that from myriad wings o’er Scythian cups Of frothy milk, concreted soon with blood. Throughout the fields the savoury smoke ascends, And boughs and branches shade the hides unbroached. Some roll the flowery turf into a seat, And others press the helmet—now resounds The signal—queen and monarch mount the thrones. The brazen clarion hoarsens: many leagues Above them, many to the south, the heron Rising with hurried croak and throat outstretched, Ploughs up the silvering surface of her plain. Tottering with age’s zeal and mischief’s haste Now was discovered Dalica; she reached The throne, she leant against the pedestal, And now ascending stood before the king. Prayers for his health and safety she preferred, And o’er his head and o’er his feet she threw Myrrh, nard, and cassia, from three golden urns; His robe of native woof she next removed, And round his shoulders drew the garb accursed, And bowed her head and parted: soon the queen Saw the blood mantle in his manly cheeks, And feared, and faltering sought her lost replies, And blessed the silence that she wished were broke.