Page:Poems - Southey (1799) volume 1.djvu/38

22

Each breast with freedom's holy ardor glows,
From every voice the cry of rapture rose;
Their thundering clamours burst the astonish'd sky,
And birds o'er-passing hear, and drop, and die.
Thus o'er the Persian doom 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;