# The Siege of Valencia; The Last Constantine: with Other Poems/The Last Constantine

THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
........Thou strivest nobly, When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk: And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed, Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears. ................ ........Fame I look not for, But to sustain, in Heaven's all seeing eye, Before my fellow men, in mine own sight, With graceful virtue and becoming pride, The dignity and honour of a man, Thus station'd as I am, I will do all That man may do. Miss Baillie's Constantine Palæologus.
THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
I.
The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines, In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died; —Shout, for the City of the Constantines, The rising City of the billow-side, The City of the Cross!—great Ocean's bride, Crown'd from her birth she sprung!—Long ages pass'd, And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide, Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
II.
Long ages pass'd!—they left her porphyry halls Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold Broider'd her mantle, and her castled walls Frown'd in their strength; yet there were signs which told The days were full. The pure high faith of old Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep She lay, and murmur'd if a rose-leaf's fold Disturb'd her dreams; and call'd her slaves to keep
III.
But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; 'Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, Breaks on the soft repose, by Luxury woo'd! There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows, And darker hues have stain'd the marble, strew'd With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose,
IV.
A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar, Through Ida's giant-pines! Across the seas A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore From Tempè's haunted river to the shore Of the reed-crown'd Eurotas; when, of old, Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er Th' indignant wave which would not be controll'd,
V.
And it is thus again!—Swift oars are dashing The parted waters, and a light is cast On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast. There swells a savage trumpet on the blast, A music of the deserts, wild and deep, Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are past Where low midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep,
VI.
War from the West!—the snows on Thracian hills Are loosed by Spring's warm breath; yet o'er the lands Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain rills Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. War from the East?—midst Araby's lone sands, More lonely now the few bright founts may be, While Ismael's bow is bent in warrior-hands Against the Golden City of the sea$^1$:
VII.
Hear yet again, ye mighty!—Where are they, Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown'd, Leap'd up, in proudly beautiful array, As to a banquet gathering, at the sound Of Persia's clarion?—Far and joyous round, From the pine-forests, and the mountain-snows, And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound Of the bright waves, at Freedom's voice they rose!
VIII.
They slumber with their swords!—The olive-shades In vain are whispering their immortal tale! In vain the spirit of the past pervades The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale. —Yet must Thou wake, though all unarm'd and pale, Devoted City!—Lo! the Moslem's spear, Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
IX.
Be hush'd, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping! Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high, And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping In their proud graves of sainted chivalry, Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh To Syrian gales!—The sons of each brave line, From their baronial halls shall hear your cry, And seize the arms which flash'd round Salem's shrine,
X.
All still, all voiceless!—and the billow's roar Alone replies!—Alike their soul is gone, Who shared the funeral-feast on Æta's shore, And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon Swell'd the crusader's hymn!—Then gird thou on Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour Which waits thee ere the day's fierce work is done With a strong heart; so may thy helmet tower
XI.
But linger not,—array thy men of might! The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes. Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright, And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near, Around thy walls the sons of battle close; Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,
XII.
Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade$^2$, Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high! Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade! Snatch every brief delight,—since we must die!— Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by, For feast in vine-wreath'd bower, or pillar'd hall; Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky, And deep and hollow is the tambour's call,
XIII.
The night, the glorious oriental night, Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven, With its clear stars! The red artillery's light, Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendor driven, To the still firmament's expanse hath given Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds low'r,
XIV.
Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth To Faith and Courage! From luxurious ease A gallant few have started! O'er the seas, From the Seven Towers$^3$, their banner waves its sign, And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze, Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine;
XV.
Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from her The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye? —That city of the throne and sepulchre Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die! Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high, Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass'd With its long march of sceptred imag'ry$^4$, Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast?
XVI.
Vain dreams! upon that spirit hath descended Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended A spark, with Earth's triumphal memories fraught, And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust, Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought (Though through its veil, seen darkly from the dust,)
XVII.
Those were proud days, when on the battle plain, And in the sun's bright face, and midst th' array Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain, The Roman cast his glittering mail away$^5$, And, while a silence, as of midnight, lay O'er breathless thousands, at his voice who started, Call'd on the unseen, terrific powers that sway The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,
XVIII.
But then, around him as the javelins rush'd, From earth to heaven swell'd up the loud acclaim; And, ere his heart's last free libation gush'd, With a bright smile the warrior caught his name, Far-floating on the winds! And Vict'ry came, And made the hour of that immortal deed A life, in fiery feeling! Valour's aim Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed,
XIX.
But praise—and dearer, holier praise, be theirs, Who, in the stillness and the solitude Of hearts press'd earthwards by a weight of cares, Uncheer'd by Fame's proud hope, th' ethereal food Of restless energies, and only view'd By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne, Is on the soul's dark places; have subdued And vow'd themselves, with strength till then unknown,
XX.
Theirs be the bright and sacred names enshrined Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong, Not to the gorgeous faith which charm'd mankind With its rich pomp of festival and song, Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng; But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries Man's hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong Than storm or earthquake's voice; for thence arise
XXI.
Well might thy name, brave Constantine! awake Such thought, such feeling!—But the scene again Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break— Thro' the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain, The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, With its bright cross fix'd high in crowning grace; Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, And, circling all with arms, that turban'd race,
XXII.
Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming Red o'er the waters$^6$! Hail, deliverers, hail! Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming, Is Hope's own smile! They crowd the swelling sail, On, with the foam, the sunbeam, and the gale, Borne, as a victor's car! The batteries pour Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil Of smoke floats up th' exulting winds before!
XXIII.
The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe's, Asia's coast, All throng'd! one theatre for kingly war! A monarch girt with his Barbaric host, Points o'er the beach his flashing scymetar! Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar, Hands waving banners o'er each battlement, Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar The promis'd aid; but hark! a shout is sent
XXIV.
On, on thro' rushing flame, and arrowy shower, The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way, And, with the shadows of the vesper-hour, Furl'd their white sails, and anchor'd in the bay. Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay, Then the Greek wines flow'd mantling in the light Of festal halls;—and there was joy!—the ray Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright,
XXV.
For, vain that feeble succour! Day by day Th' imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play, Comes powerful, as when Heaven unbinds the deep! —Man's heart is mightier than the castled steep, Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled; Man's thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep Flies far; and in their mien, the walls who tread,
XXVI.
It was a sad and solemn task to hold Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer'd wall! As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll'd, A sound of fate was in its rise and fall! The heavy clouds were as an empire's pall, The giant-shadows of each tower and fane Lay like the grave's; a low mysterious call Breathed in the wind, and from the tented plain
XXVII.
For they might catch the Arab charger's neighing, The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song; Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying, The watch-word mutter'd in some eastern tongue. Then flash'd the gun's terrific light along The marble streets, all stillness—not repose; And boding thoughts came o'er them, dark and strong; For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those
XXVIII.
But strength is from the mightiest! There is one Still in the breach, and on the rampart seen, Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun, And tells, in silence, how the night hath been, In kingly halls, a vigil: yet serene, The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye, And there is that in his collected mien, To which the hearts of noble men reply,
XXIX.
Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate, To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone; High power was made their birthright, to create A thousand thoughts responsive to their own! A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone Start into life, where'er their path may be, Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown O'er Indian groves$^7$, a wanderer wild and free,
XXX.
And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast On evil days, thou Cæsar! yet the few That set their generous bosoms to the blast Which rocks thy throne—the fearless and the true, Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew The free devotion of the years gone by, When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman drew Enduring strength!—states vanish—ages fly—
XXXI.
These are our nature's heritage. But thou, The crown'd with empire! thou wert call'd to share A cup more bitter. On thy fever'd brow The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear, Which long had pass'd away; alone to bear The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came As a strong billow in their weight of care; And, with all this, to smile! for earth-born frame,
XXXII.
Her glance is on the triumph, on the field, On the red scaffold; and where'er, in sight Of human eyes, the human soul is steel'd To deeds that seem as of immortal might, Yet are proud nature's! But her meteor-light Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where, In silence, and in secret, and in night, The noble heart doth wrestle with despair,
XXXIII.
Men have been firm in battle: they have stood With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains, And won the birthright of their hearths with blood, And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes, That so their children, undefiled with chains, Might worship there in peace. But they that stand When not a beacon o'er the wave remains, Link'd but to perish with a ruin'd land,
XXXIV
But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, It is but as the Roman's stoic glance Fell on that stage where man's last agony Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die, Reck'd not which champion; but prepared the strain, And bound the bloody wreath of victory, To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain,
XXXV.
The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught With this of Liberty, that now the need Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought, And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed, With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed From tasks like these by Misery; one alone Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed, Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown
XXXVI.
The signs are full. They are not in the sky, Nor in the many voices of the air, Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high Toss their wild spears; no meteor-banners glare, No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair, And yet the signs are full: too truly seen In the thinn'd ramparts, in the pale despair Which lends one language to a people's mien,
XXXVII.
It is a night of beauty; such a night As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade, Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright, Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade Their forest-haunts: a night, to rove alone, Where the young leaves by vernal winds are sway'd, And the reeds whisper, with a dreamy tone
XXXVIII.
A night, to call from green Elysium's bowers The shades of elder bards; a night, to hold Unseen communion with th' inspiring powers That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old; A night, for mourners, o'er the hallow'd mould, To strew sweet flowers; for revellers to fill And wreath the cup; for sorrows to be told, Which love hath cherish'd long;—vain thoughts! be still!
XXXIX.
It should come sweeping in the storm, and rending The ancient summits in its dread career! And with vast billows, wrathfully contending, And with dark clouds, o'ershadowing every sphere! —But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear, Passing to lay the sovereign cities low, Alike in His omnipotence is near, When the soft winds o'er spring's green pathway blow,
XL.
The heavens in still magnificence look down On the hush'd Bosphorus, whose ocean-stream Sleeps, with its paler stars: the snowy crown Of far Olympus$^8$, in the moonlight-gleam Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan's dream Throng'd it with gods, and bent th' adoring knee! —But that is past—and now the One Supreme Fills not alone those haunts; but earth, air, sea,
XLI.
Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones And temples of a visionary might, Brooding in clouds above your forest-zones, And mantling thence the realms beneath with night; Ye have look'd down on battles! Fear, and Flight, And arm'd Revenge, all hurrying past below! But there is yet a more appalling sight For earth prepared, than ere, with tranquil brow,
XLII.
Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp,
And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry: Of savage mirth!—Wild horn, and war-steeds' tramp, Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry, The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky A hue of menace and of wrath put on, Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high, And countless, as the flames, in ages gone,
XLIII.
But all is stillness now. May this be sleep Which wraps those eastern thousands? Yes, perchance Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep, Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance, And they behold the sparkling fountains dance Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed Rich odours o'er the faithful; but the lance, The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread,
XLIV.
May this be sleep, this hush?—A sleepless eye Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race! One that would scan th' abyss of destiny, E'en now is gazing on the skies, to trace, In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space, Fate's mystic pathway: they the while, serene, Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed's face Kindles beneath their aspect$^9$, and his mien,
XLV.
Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror's dream, To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined In depths of blue infinitude, and deem They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind O'er fields of blood!—But with the restless mind It hath been ever thus! and they that weep For worlds to conquer, o'er the bounds assign'd To human search, in daring pride would sweep,
XLVI.
But ye! that beam'd on Fate's tremendous night, When the storm burst o'er golden Babylon, And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light O'er burning Salem, by the Roman won; And ye, that calmly viewed the slaughter done In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet-blast Rung through the Capitol; bright spheres! roll on! Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast
XLVII.
For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb, And from the ruins of the tomb, and where, Midst the wreck'd cities in the desert's gloom, All tameless creatures make their savage lair, Thence comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air, And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day, And thrills the soul;—yet bids us not despair, But make one rock our shelter and our stay,
XLVIII.
The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam O'er the hush'd waters tremulously fall, Pour'd from the Cæsars' palace: now the beam Of many lamps is brightening in the hall, And from its long arcades and pillars tall Soft graceful shadows undulating lie On the wave's heaving bosom, and recall A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky,
XLIX.
But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound! The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more, Wafting an atmosphere of music round, Tells the hush'd seaman, gliding past the shore, How monarchs revel there!—Its feasts are o'er— Why gleam the lights along its colonnade? —I see a train of guests in silence pour Through its long avenues of terraced shade,
L.
In silence, and in arms!—With helm—with sword— These are no marriage-garments!—Yet e'en now Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board, Thy Georgian bride should wreath her lovely brow With an imperial diadem$^{10}$!—but thou, O fated prince! art call'd, and these with thee, To darker scenes; and thou hast learn'd to bow Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree,
LI.
On through long vestibules, with solemn tread, As men, that in some time of fear and woe, Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead, O'er whom by day their sorrows may not flow, The warriors pass: their measured steps are slow, And hollow echoes fill the marble halls, Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go, In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls,
LII.
And they have reach'd a gorgeous chamber, bright With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom Seems gather'd o'er it to the boding sight, A shadow that anticipates the tomb! Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume A purple canopy, a golden throne; But it is empty!—Hath the stroke of doom Pall'n there already?—Where is He, the One,
LIII.
Oh! there are times whose pressure doth efface Earth's vain distinctions!—when the storm beats loud, When the strong towers are tottering to their base, And the streets rock,—who mingle in the crowd? —Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud, Are in that throng!—Yes, life hath many an hour Which makes us kindred, by one chast'ning bow'd, And feeling but, as from the storm we cower,
LIV.
Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high, Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak, In the deep human heart more gloriously, Than in the bursting thunder!—Thence the weak, They that seem'd form'd, as flower-stems, but to break With the first wind, have risen to deeds, whose name Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek, And thrill the pulse!—Ay, strength no pangs could tame
LV.
And this is of such hours!—That throne is void, And its lord comes, uncrown'd. Behold him stand, With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy'd The Greek's heroic beauty, midst his band, The gather'd virtue of a sinking land, Alas! how scanty!—Now is cast aside All form of princely state; each noble hand Is prest by turns in his: for earthly pride
LVI.
A moment's hush—and then he speaks—he speaks! But not of hope! that dream hath long gone by: His words are full of memory—as he seeks, By the strong names of Rome and Liberty, Which yet are living powers that fire the eye, And rouse the heart of manhood; and by all The sad yet grand remembrances that lie Deep with earth's buried heroes; to recall
LVII.
His words are full of faith!—And thoughts, more high Than Rome ere knew, now fill his glance with light; Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die Than e'er were drawn from Nature's haughty might! And to that eye, with all the spirit bright, Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame The bravest in such moments!—'Tis a sight To make all earthly splendours cold and tame,
LVIII.
They weep—those champions of the Cross—they weep, Yet vow themselves to death!—Aye, midst that train Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep Their lofty sacrifice!—The pang is vain, And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain A warrior's sword.—Those men are strangers here$^{11}$— The homes, they never may behold again, Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,
LIX.
$^{12}$Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers? Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's dyes? —It is their own. They see their father's towers, Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise: They meet in soul, the bright Italian eyes, Which long and vainly shall explore the main For their white sail's return: the melodies Of that sweet land are floating o'er their brain—
LX.
Such moments come to thousands! —few may die Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave, The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye Made summer in a parent's heart, and gave Light to their peopled homes; o'er land and wave Are scatter'd fast and far, as rose-leaves fall From the deserted stem. They find a grave Far from the shadow of th' ancestral hall,
LXI.
But life flows on, and bears us with its tide, Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell, Though they were those once blooming at our side In youth's gay home!—Away! what sound's deep swell Comes on the wind?—It is an empire's knell, Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night! For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell, Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite,
LXII.
Again, and yet again! —A startling power In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear, Full on remembrance, each eventful hour, Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the air When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear A mien like joy's; and when young brides are led From their paternal homes; and when the glare Of burning streets, on midnight's cloud, waves red,
LXIII.
But to those tones what thrilling soul was given, On that last night of empire!—As a spell Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven, On the chill'd heart of multitudes they fell. Each cadence seem'd a prophecy, to tell Of sceptres passing from their line away, An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell, The requiem of a faith's departing sway,
LXIV.
Again, and yet again!—from yon high dome, Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they Who never more to rest in mortal home, Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day, Th' imperial band, in close and arm'd array, As men that from the sword must part no more, Take through the midnight streets their silent way, Within their ancient temple to adore,
LXV.
It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes, O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed, In the beleaguer'd city. Stillness lies With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread, But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread, The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread Of many steps is in the echoing street,
LXVI.
Their homes are luxury's yet: why pour they thence With a dim terror in each restless eye? Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence, In darkness, with its heavy wheels, roll'd by, And rock'd their palaces, as if on high The whirlwind pass'd?—From couch and joyous board Hath the fierce phantom beckon'd them to die? —No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour'd$^{14}$
LXVII.
Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass Through those pale throngs, the streaming torchlight throws On some wild form, amidst the living mass, Hues, deeply red, like lava's, which disclose What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes! Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in prayer, Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows Betokening inward agonies, were there:
LXVIII.
But high above that scene, in bright repose, And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows, But all instinct with loftier being seems, Pale, grand, colossal; lo! th' embodied dreams Of yore!—Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought, Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes Of mortal passion!—Yet 'twas man that caught,
LXIX.
Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome? That Rome which witness'd, in her sceptred days, So much of noble death?—When shrine and dome, Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays, As the long triumph pass'd, with all its blaze Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne, O sovereign forms! concentering all the rays Of the soul's lightnings?—did ye not adorn
LXX.
Hath it been thus?—Or did ye grace the halls, Once peopled by the mighty?—Haply there, In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair, Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air, The sound of lyres, the flower-crown'd goblet's flow$^{15}$:
LXXI.
The stately fane is reach'd—and at its gate The warriors pause; on life's tumultuous tide A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state Hath mark'd from all, to be more sternly tried By suffering, speaks:—each ruder voice hath died, While his implores forgiveness!—"If there be One midst your throngs, my people!—whom in pride. Or passion, I have wrong'd; such pardon, free
LXXII.
But all is silence; and a gush of tears Alone replies!—He hath not been of those Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears Of all; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes, To whom day brings not safety, night repose, For they have heard the voice cry "Sleep no more!" Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er,
LXXIII.
He hath been loved—but who may trust the love Of a degenerate race?—in other mould Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove Their faith through fiery trials.—Yet behold, And call him not forsaken!—Thoughts untold Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread Moves firmly to the shrine.—What pomps unfold Within its precincts!—Isles and seas have shed
LXXIV.
'Tis a proud vision—that most regal pile Of ancient days!—The lamps are streaming bright From its rich altar, down each pillar'd aisle, Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light Developes, on those walls, the thousand dyes Of the vein'd marbles, which array their height, And from yon dome$^{16}$, the lode-star of all eyes,
LXXV.
But gaze thou not on these; though heaven's own hues, In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie; Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse Arch, column, rich mosaic: pass thou by The stately tombs, where eastern Cæsars lie, Beneath their trophies; pause not here, for know, A deeper source of all sublimity Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show,
LXXVI.
Turn thou to mark (tho' tears may dim thy gaze) The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone; Heed not, tho' gems and gold around it blaze, Those heads unhelm'd, those kneeling forms alone, Thus bow'd, look glorious here. The light is thrown Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord, A sufferer!—but his task shall soon be done— E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd,
LXXVII.
The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part, Once—and but once—to meet on earth again! Each, in the strength of a collected heart, To dare what man may dare—and know 'tis vain! The rite is o'er: and thou, majestic fane! The glory is departed from thy brow! Be clothed with dust!—the Christian's farewell strain Hath died within thy walls; thy Cross must bow;
LXXVIII.
The streets grow still and lonely—and the star, The last bright lingerer in the path of morn, Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war, As if young Hope with Twilight's ray were born, Awhile the city sleeps:—her throngs, o'erworn With fears and watchings, to their homes retire; Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn With battle-sounds$^{17}$; the winds in sighs expire,
LXXIX.
The city sleeps!—aye! on the combat's eve, And by the scaffold's brink, and midst the swell Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve Thus, from her cares. The brave have slumber'd well, And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell, Chain'd between Life and Death!—Such rest be thine, For conflicts wait thee still!—Yet who can tell In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may shine
LXXX.
Doth the blast rise?—the clouded East is red, As if a storm were gathering; and I hear What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread, The soft and smother'd step, of those, that fear Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark! yet more near It comes, a many-ton'd and mingled sound; A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sear, A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
LXXXI.
Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore ascending In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day! Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending, Thro' tower and wall, a path for their array? Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey, With its wild voice, to which the seas reply! And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway, And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
LXXXII.
They fail not now, the generous band, that long Have rang'd their swords around a falling throne; Still in those fearless men the walls are strong, Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own! —Shall those high energies be vainly shown? No! from their towers th' invading tide is driven Back, like the Red-sea waves, when God had blown With his strong winds$^{18}$!—the dark-brow'd ranks are riven—
LXXXIII.
Stand firm!—Again the crescent host is rushing, And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep, With all their fires and darts, tho' blood is gushing Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep. Stand firm!—there yet is hope—th' ascent is steep, And from on high no shaft descends in vain; —But those that fall swell up the mangled heap, In the red moat, the dying and the slain,
LXXXIV.
Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour, Of all terrific sounds!—the savage tone Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown, The deep dull tambour's beat!—man's voice alone Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry Of trampled thousands—prayer, and shriek, and moan, All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,
LXXXV.
War-clouds have wrapt the city!—thro' their dun O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze, As of an angry storm-presaging sun, From the Greek fire shoots up$^{19}$; and lightning rays Flash, from the shock of sabres, thro' the haze, And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air! —Aye! this is in the compass of our gaze,— But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there,
LXXXVI.
Woe, shame and woe!—A chief, a warrior flies, A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale! —Oh God! that nature's passing agonies, Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail! Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail, And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son$^{20}$! Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail! —But there are tortures which thou canst not shun,
LXXXVII.
Oh! happy, in their homes, the noble dead! The seal is set on their majestic fame; Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed, Fate has no power to dim their stainless name! They may not, in one bitter moment, shame Long glorious years; from many a lofty stem Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame, And stars drop, fading, from the diadem;
LXXXVIII.
Where art thou, Constantine?—Where Death is reaping His sevenfold harvest! Where the stormy light, Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping, Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday-night? Where the towers rock and crumble from their height, As to the earthquake, and the engines ply Like red Vesuvio; and where human might Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,
LXXXIX.
Where art thou, Constantine?—Where christian blood Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain! Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood, Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain Dark strength each moment: where the gallant slain Around the banner of the cross lie strew'd, Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain; Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,
XC.
Now is he battling midst a host alone, As the last cedar stems awhile the sway Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown Its forest-brethren in their green array! And he hath cast his purple robe away, With its imperial bearings; that his sword An iron ransom from the chain may pay, And win, what haply Fate may yet accord,
XCI.
Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files Which once were men, the faithful and the brave! Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles Of shatter'd helms and shields, which could not save; And crests and banners, never more to wave In the free winds of heaven!—He is of those O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave, And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,
XCII.
Woe to the vanquish'd! thus it hath been still, Since Time's first march!—Hark, hark, a people's cry! Aye! now the conquerors in the streets fulfil Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly; Hark! now each piercing tone of agony Blends in the city's shriek!—The lot is cast. Slaves, 'twas your choice, thus, rather thus, to die, Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and fast,
XCIII.
Oh! well doth Freedom battle!—Men have made, E'en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand,
And on the floors, where once their children play'd, And by the hearths, round which their household band At evening met; aye! struggling hand to hand, Within the very chambers of their sleep,
There have they taught the spoilers of the land, In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep,
XCIV.
'Tis eve—the storm hath died—the valiant rest Low on their shields; the day's fierce work is done, And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run! Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell (Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won) Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell,
XCV.
Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong, He comes,—the Moslem treads those ancient halls! But all is stillness there, as Death had long Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls. And half that silence of the grave appals The conqueror's heart. Aye, thus with Triumph's hour, Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls A thought of those impervious clouds that low'r
XCVI.
"The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung Her watch-song, and around th' imperial throne The spider weaves his web$^{21}$!" Still darkly hung That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone, O'er his flush'd spirit. Years on years have flown To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air, That the coil'd snake may bask on sculptur'd stone, And nations clear the forest, to prepare
XCVII.
But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, As a crown'd leader in such hours should die, Upon thy pyre of shiver'd spears art lying, With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy, And banners for thy shroud!—No tear, no sigh, Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear'd on high, The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow;
XCVIII.
"After life's fitful fever thou sleep'st well!" We may not mourn thee!—Sceptred chiefs, from whom The earth received her destiny, and fell Before them trembling—to a sterner doom Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon's gloom, With its cold starless midnight, hath been made More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb, Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh'd
XCIX.
Or in the eye of thousands they have stood, To meet the stroke of Death—but not like thee! From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal'd their blood, But thou didst fall unfetter'd, arm'd, and free, And kingly, to the last!—And if it be, That, from the viewless world, whose marvels none Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see The things of earth; still may'st thou hail the sun,
C.
And the hour comes, in storm!—A light is glancing Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades! —'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing, Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades; A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades, Round dark Cithæron, and by Delphi's steep; —'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids, Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep,
CI.
Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old, Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain, And by the streams, once crimson as they roll'd The Persian helm and standard to the main; And the blue waves of Salamis again Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply, With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain, Far as Platæa's, where the mighty lie,
CII.
Bright land, with glory mantled o'er by song! Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams, And fountains, whose deserted banks along, Still the soft air with inspiration teems; Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes To verse for ever; and of ruin'd shrines, That scarce look desolate beneath such beams, As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines!
CIII.
Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear! —Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave O'er Mantinea's earth?—doth Pindus rear His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave? And is there yet on Marathon a grave? And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line By Sparta's ruins?—And shall man, a slave, Bow'd to the dust, amid such scenes repine?
CIV.
Wash from that soil the stains, with battle-showers! —Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays, The crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, In the Comneni's$^{23}$ halls the Tartar sways: But not for long!—the spirit of those days, When the three hundred made their funeral pile Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile
CV.
If then 'tis given thee to arise in might, Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain, Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright! The cross of victory should not know a stain! So may that faith once more supremely reign, Through which we lift our spirits from the dust! And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain, She dies forsaken; but repose our trust
NOTES.
* ↑ Note 1. ———While Ismael's bow, &c. The army of Mahomet the Second, at the siege of Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and nations, who were not enrolled amongst the regular troops. The sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople; but his army must have been principally collected in the Asiatic provinces, which he had previously visited.
* ↑ Note 2. ———Bring wine, bring odours, &c. Huc vina, et unguenta, et nimium brevis Flores amœnæ ferre jube rosæ. Hor. lib. ii. od. 3.
* ↑ Note 3. From the Seven Towers, &c. The Castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Byzantine history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an edifice which contributed materially to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the later periods of the empire. For a description of this building, see Pouqueville's Travels.
* ↑ Note 4. With its long march of sceptred imagery. An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in procession, at the funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors.
* ↑ Note 5. The Roman cast his glittering mail away. The following was the ceremony of consecration with which Decius devoted himself in battle. He was ordered by Valerius, the pontifex maximus, to quit his military habit, and put on the robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then covered his head with a veil; commanded him to put forth his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words: "O Janus, Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona, and ye Lares and Novensiles! All ye heroes who dwell in heaven, and all ye gods who rule over us and our enemies, especially ye gods of hell! I honour you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all fear and terror from them to their enemies; and I do, for the safety of the Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth." Decius then, girding his robe around him, mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the thickest of the enemy's battalions. The Latins were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle; but at length recovering themselves, they discharged a shower of darts, under which the consul fell.
* ↑ Note 6. See Gibbon's animated description of the arrival of five Christian ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the besieged, not many days before the fall of Constantinople.—Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215.
* ↑ Note 7. As when the wind hath blown O'er Indian groves, &c. The summits of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, particularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, which grows in thick clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity, that in the sultry season of the year the friction occasioned by a strong dry wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which frequently setting the woods in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a valley surrounded by rocks, a magnificent, though imperfect circle of fire.—Notes to Kindersley's Specimens of Hindoo Literature.
* ↑ Note 8. ————The snowy crown Of far Olympus, &c. Those who steer their westward course through the middle of the Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace and Bithynia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, covered with eternal snows.—Decline and Fall, &c. vol. iii. p. 8.
* ↑ Note 9. ————Mohammed’s face Kindles beneath their aspect, &c. Mahomet II. was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. His calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning of the 29th of May as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the city.
* ↑ Note 10. Thy Georgian bride, &c. Constantine Palæologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess; and the very spring which witnessed the fall of Constantinople had been fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride to that city.
* ↑ Note 11. Those men are strangers here. Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were foreigners and chiefly Italians.
* ↑ Note 12. Know'st thou the land, &c. This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a beautiful song of Goethe's: Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen blühn, Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen glühn? &c.
* ↑ Note 13. The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified in Schiller's poem "Das Lied der Glocke."
* ↑ Note 14. Hath the fierce phantom, &c. It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is announced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard in the streets at midnight; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, who summons the devoted person by name.
* ↑ Note 15. Ye smiled on banquets of despair. Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable.
* ↑ Note 16. Yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes. For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries, employed in the construction of St. Sophia, see The Decline and Fall, &c, vol. vii. p. 120.
* ↑ Note 17. Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn With battle-sounds, &c. The assault of the city took place at day-break, and the Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also been commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of Constantine Palæologus:— "Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor trump, Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe Our near approach betray: silent and soft, As the pard's velvet foot on Lybia's sands, Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey." Constantine Palæologus, Act iv. "The march and labour of thousands" must, however, as Gibbon observes, "have inevitably produced a strange confusion of discordant clamours, which reached the ears of the watchmen on the towers."
* ↑ Note 18. The dark-brow'd ranks are riven. "After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune of the day.
* ↑ Note 19. From the Greek fire shoots up, &c. "A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople is the re-union of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and the battering-ram were directed against the same wall; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and unextinguishable fire."—Decline and Fall, &c, vol. xii. p. 213.
* ↑ Note 20. And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son! "The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniani (a Genoese chief). The sight of his blood, and exquisite pain, appalled the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest rampart of the city."—Decline and Fall, &c, vol. xii. p. 229.
* ↑ Note 21. The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung Her watch-song, &c. Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. "A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry: 'The spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab.'"—Decline and Fall, &c, vol. xii. p. 240.
* ↑ Note 22. The Bowl of Liberty— One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platæa was annually commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the Bowl of Liberty, which was afterwards poured forth in libation.
* ↑ Note 23. In the Comneni's halls— The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the families who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years of the eastern empire.