# Tales and Historic Scenes/The Wife of Asdrubal

THE
WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.
​"This governor, who had braved death when it was at a distance, and protested that the sun should never see him survive Carthage, this fierce Asdrubal, was so mean-spirited, as to come alone, and privately throw himself at the conqueror's feet. The general, pleased to see his proud rival humbled, granted his life, and kept him to grace his triumph. The Carthaginians in the citadel no sooner understood that their commander had abandoned the place, than they threw open the gates, and put the proconsul in possession of Byrsa. The Romans had now no enemy to contend with but the nine hundred deserters, who, being reduced to despair, retired into the temple of Esculapius, which was a second citadel within the first: there the proconsul attacked them; and these unhappy wretches, finding there was no way to escape, set fire to the temple. As the flames spread, they retreated from one part to another, till they got to the roof of the building: there Asdrubal's wife appeared in her best apparel, as if the day of her death had been a day of triumph; and after having uttered the most bitter imprecations against her husband, whom she saw standing below with Emilianus,—'Base coward!' said she, 'the mean things thou hast done to save thy life shall not avail thee; thou shalt die this instant, at least in thy two children.' Having thus spoken, she drew out a dagger, stabbed them both, and while they were yet struggling for life, threw them from the top of the temple, and leaped down after them into the flames."—Ancient Universal History.
THE
WIFE OF ASDRUBAL.
The sun sets brightly—but a ruddier glow O'er Afric's heaven the flames of Carthage throw; Her walls have sunk, and pyramids of fire In lurid splendor from her domes aspire; Sway'd by the wind, they wave—while glares the sky As when the desert's red Simoom is nigh; The sculptured altar, and the pillar'd hall, Shine out in dreadful brightness ere they fall; Far o'er the seas the light of ruin streams, Rock, wave, and isle, are crimson'd by its beams; While captive thousands, bound in Roman chains Gaze in mute horror on their burning fanes; And shouts of triumph, echoing far around, Swell from the victor's tents with ivy crown'd*.
But mark! from yon fair temple's loftiest height What towering form bursts wildly on the sight, All regal in magnificent attire, And sternly beauteous in terrific ire? She might be deem'd a Pythia in the hour of dread communion and delirious power; A being more than earthly, in whose eye There dwells a strange and fierce ascendancy. The flames are gathering round—intensely bright, Full on her features glares their meteor-light, But a wild courage sits triumphant there, The stormy grandeur of a proud despair; A daring spirit, in its woes elate, Mightier than death, untameable by fate. The dark profusion of her locks unbound, Waves like a warrior's floating plumage round; Flush'd is her cheek, inspired her haughty mien, She seems th' avenging goddess of the scene.
Are those her infants, that with suppliant-cry Cling round her, shrinking as the flame draws nigh, Clasp with their feeble hands her gorgeous vest, And fain would rush for shelter to her breast?
Is that a mother's glance, where stern disdain, And passion awfully vindictive, reign?
Fix'd is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands, Ignobly safe, amidst the conquering bands; On him, who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children's martyrdom; Who when his country perish'd, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. "Live, traitor, live!" she cries, "since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour'd, live!—with blasted name, The Roman's triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither'd heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! E'en now my sons shall die—and thou, their sire, In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.
Think'st thou I love them not?—'Twas thine to fly— 'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate—the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave."
Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.