"Hark, hark, to gong and horn, Clarion, and fife, and drum, The morn, the fortieth morn, Fixed for the great assault is come. Between the camp and city spreads A waving sea of helmed heads. From the royal car of Seth Was hung the blood-reg flag of death: At sight of that thrice-hallowed sign Wide flew at once each banner's fold; The captains clashed their arms of gold; The war cry of Elohim rolled Far down their endless line. On the northern hills afar Pealed an answering note of war. Soon the dust in whirlwinds driven, Rushed across the northern heaven. Beneath its shroud came thick and loud The tramp as of a countless crowd; And at intervals were seen Lance and hauberk glancing sheen; And at intervals were heard Charger's neigh and battle word. "Oh what a rapturous cry From all the city's thousand spires arose, With what a look the hollow eye Of the lean watchman glared upon the foes, With what a yell of joy the mother pressed The moaning baby to her withered breast; When through the swarthy cloud that veiled the plain Burst on his children's sight the flaming brow of Cain!" There paused perforce that noble song; For from all the joyous throng, Burst forth a rapturous shout which drowned Singer's voice and trumpet's sound. Thrice that stormy clamour fell, Thrice rose again with mightier swell. The last and loudest roar of all Had died along the painted wall. The crowd was hushed; the minstrel train Prepared to strike the chords again; When on each ear distinctly smote A low and wild and wailing note. It moans again. In mute amaze Menials, and guests, and harpers gaze. They look above, beneath, around, No shape doth own that mournful sound. It comes not from the tuneful quire; It comes not from the feasting peers. There is no tone of earthly lyre So soft, so sad, so full of tears. Then a strange horror came on all Who sate at that high festival. The far famed harp, the harp of gold, Dropped from Jubal's trembling hold. Frantic with dismay the bride Clung to her Ahirad's side. And the corpse-like hue of dread Ahirad's haughty face o'erspread. Yet not even in that agony of awe Did the young leader of the fair-haired race From Tirzah's shuddering grasp his hand withdraw, Or turn his eyes from Tirzah's livid face. The tigers to their lord retreat, And crouch and whine beneath his feet. Prone sink to earth the golden shielded seven. All hearts are cowed save his alone Who sits upon the emerald throne; For he hath heard Elohim speak from heaven. Still thunders in his ear the peal; Still blazes on his front the seal: And on the soul of the proud king No terror of created thing