Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848. Various

      A trumpet from the walls

      Proclaimed the day's festivities begun.

      Preceded by musicians and sweet singers,

      A long procession passed the city-gate,

      And, traversing the winding maze of streets,

      Climbed to the Capitol. Choice victims, dressed

      With pictured ornaments and wreaths of flowers,

      An offering to the tutelary gods,

      Led the advance. Then followed spoils immense,

      Baskets of jewels, vases of wrought gold,

      Paintings and statuary, cloths and wares,

      Of costliest manufacture, close succeeded

      By the rich symbols of Palmyra's glory,

      Torn from her temples and her palaces,

      To grace a triumph in the streets of Rome.

      With toilsome step next walked the captive queen;

      And then the victor, in his car of state,

      With milk-white horses of Thessalian breed,

      And in his retinue a splendid train

      Of Rome's nobility. In one long line

      The army last appeared in bright array,

      With banners high displayed, filling the air

      With songs of victory. The pageant proud

      Quickened remembrance of departed days,

      And warmed the bosoms of the multitude

      With deep devotion to the commonwealth.

      High in his gilded chariot, decked in robes

      Of broidered purple, and with laurel crowned,

      Rode the triumphant conqueror, in his hand

      The emblems of his power. The capital

      Of his wide empire was inflamed with zeal

      To do him honor and exalt his praise.

      The world was at his feet; his sovereign will

      None dared to question, and his haughty word

      Was law to nations. Yet his heart was troubled.

      In the dim distance he discerned the flight

      Of Freedom, on swift pinions heralding

      Enfranchisement to the oppressed of earth.

      He knew the feeble tenure of dominion

      Based on allegiance with reluctance paid;

      And read the future overthrow of Rome

      In the unyielding spirit of his victim.

      Uncovered in the sun, weary and faint,

      Bowed to the earth with chains of ravished gold,

      With feet unsandaled, walked Zenobia,

      Slave to the craven tyrant's cruelty.

      Neither her peerless beauty, nor her sex,

      Nor yet her grievous sufferings could melt

      The despot's stony heart. She, who surpassed

      Her conqueror in all the qualities

      Of head or heart which crown humanity

      With nobleness and high preëminence —

      She, whose misfortunes in a glorious cause,

      And not her errors, had achieved her ruin —

      Burdened with ignominy and disgrace

      For her resplendent virtues, not her crimes—

      She who had graced a palace, and dispensed

      Pardon to penitence, reward to worth,

      And tempered justice with benevolence —

      Wickedly torn from her exalted station,

      Now walked a captive in the streets of Rome,

      E'en at the feet of the oppressors steeds.

      Yet was her spirit all untamed. Disdain

      Still sat upon her countenance, and breathed

      Unmeasured scorn upon her persecutors.

      The blush of innocence upon her cheek,

      The burning pride that flashed within her eye,

      The majesty enthroned upon her brow,

      Told, in a language which the tyrant felt,

      That her unconquered spirit soared sublime

      In a pure orbit whither his sordid soul

      Could ne'er attain. Had he a captive led

      Some odious wretch, whose sanguinary crimes,

      Long perpetrated under sanction of a strength

      No arm could reach, had spread a pall of mourning

      Over a people's desolated homes,

      He then had right to triumph o'er his victim.

      But 't was not thus. Insatiable ambition

      Had led him to unsheath his victor sword

      Against a monarch whose distinctive sway

      Ravished from Rome no tittle of her right;

      And, to augment the aggregate of wrong,

      That monarch was a woman, whose renown,

      Compared with his, was gold compared with brass.

      As o'er the stony street the captive paced

      Her weary way before the victor's steeds,

      And marked the multitudes insatiate gaze,

      The look of calm defiance on her face

      Told that she bowed not to her degradation.

      Her thoughts were not at Rome. Unheeded all,

      The billows of the mad excitement dashed

      About her, and broke harmless at her feet.

      Dim reminiscences of former days

      Burst like a deluge on her errant mind;

      Leading her backward to the buried past,

      When in the artless buoyancy of youth

      She sat beneath Palmyra's fragrant shades

      And gleaned the pages of historic story,

      Red with Rome's bloody catalogue of wrong.

      Little she dreamed Palmyra's palaces

      Should e'er be scenes of Roman violence;

      Little she dreamed that hers should be the lot

      (A captive princess led in chains) to crown

      The splendor of a Roman holyday.

      Alas! the blow she thought not of had fallen.

      A bloody struggle, like a dreadful dream,

      Had briefly raged, and all to her was lost,

      Save the poor grace of a degraded life.

      Her sun of glory was gone down in blood