Vii monologue — Ismael; an oriental tale. With other poems

His fav’rite slave approach’d, the salem made, And some low words in whisp’ring accent said-- “’Tis right, them instant to our presence bring,” With hasty tone replied the haughty king. The doors of polish’d cedar open flew, And gave a warrior legion to the view; While, in the midst, fast bound in iron bands, A warlike youth, with scorn indignant, stands: 310 The simply-splendid garments that he wore, Some blast of battle-storm had lately tore, And the rich gold blush’d deep in harden’d gore; Yet his bright face and form divine, where love And war’s fierce monarch for the mastery strove, Seem’d ’mid soil’d garb and fett’ring chains t’ exclaim, “Behold a son of Conquest and of Fame.”