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Chapter 1
What burden for Nineve? Here is matter revealed to Nahum the Elcesite. A jealous lover the Lord is, and takes full vengeance; full vengeance the Lord takes, no stranger, he, to indignation; nor spares rebel, nor forgets the wrong. Bide his time he may, but power lacks not; guilty is guilty still. Storm and whirlwind are the path he treads, cloud-wrack the dust he spurns; the sea at his rebuke dries up, streams turn into a desert, Basan withers away, and Carmel; all the leaf of Lebanon fades. Shrink and shrivel they, mountain-top and hill-side, before him; quakes earth at his coming, and all the world of men with it. Alas, when the blow of his resentment falls, who may confront that fierce anger unmoved? Here is vengeance poured out like fire, to melt the hard rock!
None so gracious as the Lord, no strength like his in the hour of distress; do but trust him, and he will keep you in his care...
... Flood-tide shall overwhelm the site of it; ever his enemies find darkness at their heels. Think not, by shifts of yours, to thwart the Lord's will; believe me, he will take full toll, there shall be no second visitation. Close be it as thicket of thorns, yonder conspiracy over the cups, all at once, like scorched stubble, they shall be consumed.
Here is one of your number devising rebellion against the Lord, folly's counsellor. But thus the Lord says: Are they in full muster? At least there are over-many of them; they must be shorn of their strength. It will pass; once chastened is chastened enough, and now I mean to shatter that yoke of his that lies on your back, tear your chains asunder...
For you, this doom the Lord has; race shall never spring from you to bear your name, nor in the temple of your god any images be left, cast or carven; and I will write it on your tomb-stone, you were nothing worth.
See where they bring good news on the mountain heights, proclaiming that all is well! Now, Juda, keep holiday; paid be your vows; mocking enemy shall pass through you no more; never a one left.
Chapter 2
Here is an enemy at your gates that scatters all before him; here is close siege, no entry but must be guarded; gird you well, summon up all your strength! Honour of Juda the Lord retrieves now, and honour of Israel both, that have seen the spoiler ransack them, strip vineyard bare. Bright flash that enemy's shields, warriors of his go clad in scarlet; dart like flame his chariots as he goes to the attack, dizzily sways charioteer. How jostle they in the streets, those chariots, hurtle they in the open market-place; dazzle they like flame of torches, like the lightning that comes and goes!
Alas, for the muster-roll of the king's vassals, fallen as they went about their task! Swiftly they manned the walls, but the engines were in place already. Open, now, stands the water-gate, crumbles yonder temple into dust. Alas, for warriors of Nineve gone into exile, for maids of hers led away, that sigh and moan like ring-doves in the bitterness of their heart! Nineve, welcome sight as pools of water to the fugitive; stay, stay! But never a one looks back. Out with silver, out with gold of hers; store is here of costly stuff beyond price or reckoning! Roof to cellar rifled and ransacked! Sore hearts are here, and knees that knock together, loins that go labouring, and pale cheeks. Lair of lion, and nursery of his whelps, what trace is left of you, once so secure a retreat, his haunt and theirs? Cub nor lioness should want, so preyed he, so mauled he, so filled with plunder of his forays the den where he lay. Have at you! says the Lord of hosts; yonder chariots shall be burnt to ashes; whelps of yours shall die at the sword's point, plunder of yours be swept off the face of earth; and for your heralds, their voices shall be heard no more.
Chapter 3
Out upon you, city of blood, full fed with treason and rapine, yet still at prey! What sounds are these? Crack of whip, whirring of wheels, beat of horse-hoof, rattle of chariot. Mounts horseman, flash like lightning sword and spear; what carnage! How cumbered the earth with slain! Dead bodies past counting; the living stumble over the dead. Harlot so unwearied in your harlot's ways, so fair, so full of witchery, too long have you betrayed a nation here, a tribe there, with sorcery of yours, harlotry of yours; and now I will be even with you, says the Lord God of hosts. I mean to set your skirts flying about your ears, and lay bare the naked shame of you, for all the kingdoms of the world to see; pelted you shall be with things abominable, and foully bemocked; such a public show I will make of you, passer-by will be fain to shun you; Nineve fallen, says he, and never a tear! Search where I will, never a friend to comfort you! Here was another city, No-Ammon, fair as yourself; she too was built on the riverside, water all about her; the sea her mart, the sea her defences. Hers the Ethiop land, hers was Egypt; wanted there strength yet, African and Libyan were at her side; yet your fate was hers, exile, and captivity, and children at every street's turning dashed to death; honour and rank condemned to the lot's mercy, and the chain's grip!
Bemused and helpless with fear, looking about for succour against the invader, so she was, so you shall be. At a touch your bastions shall fall, like ripe figs that drop into the eater's mouth, soon as tree is shaken; woman-hearted the defenders, the gates wide open to the enemy's onrush, touchwood the bars of them. Water, there, water for a siege! Raise the battlements higher yet! Down to the clay-pit with you, tread the mortar, put your hand to the brick-mould! Fire shall consume you none the less, the sword cut you off, hungry as locust to devour.
Thrive you as locust thrives or grasshopper, ay, let your enterprises outnumber the stars in heaven, what avails it? Early hatches locust, early flies away. Forgotten, the high lords, forgotten, the princelings, as they had been locusts, and brood of locusts, that cling to yonder hedge-row in the chill of morning, and are gone, once the sun is up, who knows whither? Gone to their rest your marshals, king of Assyria; your vassals lie silent in the dust; out on the hills the common folk take refuge, with none to muster them. Wound of yours there is no hiding, hurt of yours is grievous; nor any shall hear the tidings of it but shall clap their hands over you, so long your tyrannous yoke has rested on so many.