The sun is bright, the air is bland, The heavens wear that stainless blue Which only in an Orient land The eye of man may view; And lo! around, and all abroad, A glittering host, a mighty horde-- And at their head a demigod Who slays with lightning-sword! The bright noon burns, but idly now Those warriors rest by copse and hill, And shadows on their Leader's brow Seem ominous of ill: Spell-bound, he stands beside a tree, And well he may, for through its leaves Unstirred by wind, come brokenly Moans, as of one that grieves! How strange! he thought:--Life is a boon Given, and resumed--but _how_? and _when_? But now I asked myself how soon I should go home agen! How soon I might once more behold My mourning mother's tearful face; How soon my kindred might enfold Me in their dear embrace! There was an Indian Magian there-- And, stepping forth, he bent his knee: "Oh, king!" he said, "be wise!--beware This too prophetic tree!" "Ha!" cried the king, "thou knowest, then, Seer, What yon strange oracle reveals?" "Alas!" the Magian said, "I hear Deep words, like thunder-peals! "I hear the groans of more than Man, Hear tones that warn, denounce, beseech; Hear--woe is me!--how darkly ran That stream of thrilling speech! 'Oh, king,' it spake, 'all-trampling king! Thou leadest legions from afar-- But Battle droops his clotted wing! Night menaces thy star! "'Fond visions of thy boyhood's years Dawn like dim light upon thy soul; Thou seest again thy mother's tears Which Love could not control! Ah! thy career in sooth is run! Ah! thou indeed returnest home! The Mother waits to clasp her son Low in her lampless dome! "'Yet go, rejoicing! He who reigns O'er Earth alone leaves worlds unscanned; Life binds the spirit as with chains; Seek thou the Phantom-land! Leave Conquest all it looks for here-- Leave willing slaves a bloody throne-- Thine henceforth is another sphere, Death's realm, the dark Unknown!'" The Magian paused; the leaves were hushed, But wailings broke from all around, Until the Chief, whose red blood flushed His cheek with hotter bound. Asked, in the tones of one with whom Fear never yet had been a guest-- "And when doth Fate achieve my doom? And where shall be my rest?" "Oh, noble heart!" the Magian said, And tears unbidden filled his eyes, "We should not weep for thee!--the Dead Change but their home and skies: The moon shall beam, the myrtles bloom For thee no more--yet sorrow not! The immortal pomp of Hades' gloom Best consecrates thy lot.