Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceas'd to sing; The shout rush'd forth--for ever live the King! Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree Pronounc'd Achaia once again was free; Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief Heard the false boon, and bless'd the villain Chief; Each breast with Freedom's holy ardor glows, From every voice the cry of rapture rose; Their thundering clamors burst the astonish'd sky, And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die. Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring, And the high hall re-echoed--live the King! The Mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord, The assembled Satraps envied and ador'd, Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes, And his pleas'd pride already doom'd the prize. Silent they saw Zorobabel advance: Quick on Apame shot his timid glance, With downward eye he paus'd a moment mute, And with light finger touch'd the softer lute. Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause, And bent her head and sweetly smil'd applause. Why is the Warrior's cheek so red? Why downward droops his musing head? Why that slow step, that faint advance, That keen yet quick-retreating glance? That crested head in war tower'd high, No backward glance disgrac'd that eye, No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead; Strange tumult now his bosom moves-- The Warrior fears because he loves. Why does the Youth delight to rove Amid the dark and lonely grove? Why in the throng where all are gay, His wandering eye with meaning fraught, Sits he alone in silent thought? Silent he sits; for far away His passion'd soul delights to stray; Recluse he roves and strives to shun All human-kind because he loves but One! Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest; But not because the sparkling bowl To rapture lifts thy waken'd soul [1] But not because of Power possest, Not that the Nations dread thy nod, And Princes reverence thee their earthly God, Even on a Monarch's solitude Care the black Spectre will intrude, The bowl brief pleasure can bestow, The Purple cannot shield from Woe. But King of Persia thou art blest, For Heaven who rais'd thee thus the world above Has made thee happy in Apame's love! Oh! I have seen his fond looks trace Each angel feature of her face, Rove o'er her form with eager eye, And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh. Lo! from his brow with mimic frown, Apame takes the sacred crown; Her faultless form, her lovely face Add to the diadem new grace And subject to a Woman's laws Darius sees and smiles applause!