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

CHORUS.
TRANSLATED FROM MANZONl'S 'CONTE DI CARMOGNOLA.'
Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet's sound! A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies! On every side, hoarse echoes from the ground, To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, Hollow and deep:—and banners all around, Meet hostile banners waving through the skies. Here steel-clad bands in marshall'd order shine, And there a host confronts their glittering line.
Lo! half the field, already from the sight Hath vanish'd, hid by closing groups of foes! Swords crossing swords, flash lightning o'er the fight, And the strife deepens, and the life-blood flows! —Oh! who are these?—What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land's repose? What patriot hearts have nobly vow'd to save Their native soil, and make its dust their grave?
One race, alas! these foes, one kindred race, Were born and rear'd the same bright scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers—and each face That brotherhood reveals;—one common tongue Dwells on their lips;—the earth on which ye trace Their heart's blood, is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth—this chosen land, Girdled with Alps and seas, by Nature's guardian hand.
Oh, grief and horror!—Who the first could dare Against a brother's breast the sword to wield? What cause unhallow'd and accursed, declare! Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? —Think'st thou they know?—they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unreveal'd! Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, With him they strive, they fall—and ask not why.
But are there none who love them?—Have they none, No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, And win with tears the husband and the son, Back to their homes from this polluted scene?
And they, whose hearts, when life's bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb; why cannot they assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age?
Ask not!—the peasant at his cabin-door Sits, calmly pointing to the distant cloud Which skirts th' horizon, menacing to pour Destruction down, o'er fields he hath not plough'd. Thus, where no echo of the battle's roar Is heard afar, e'en thus the reckless crowd, In tranquil safety number o'er the slain, Or tell of cities burning on the plain.
There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze, Fix'd on his mother's lips, intent to know, By names of insult, those, whom future days Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe! There proudly many a glittering dame displays Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, By husbands, lovers, home in triumph borne, From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.
Woe to the victors and the vanquish'd! Woe! The earth is heap'd, is loaded with the slain, Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow, A sea of blood is swelling o'er the plain! But from th' embattled front already, lo! A band recedes—it flies—all hope is vain, And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.
As the light grain disperses in the air, Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, Thus fly the vanquish'd, in their wild despair, Chas'd—sever'd—scatter'd—o'er the ample ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight—and hark! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit!—still nearer and more near, The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear!
The day is won!—they fall—disarm'd they yield, Low at the conqueror's feet all suppliant lying! Midst shouts of victory pealing o'er the field, Oh! who may hear the murmurs of the dying?
—Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal'd! E'en now the courier to his steed is flying, He spurs—he speeds—with tidings of the day, To rouse up cities in his lightning way.
Why pour ye thus from your deserted homes, Oh, eager multitudes! around him pressing? Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing! Know ye not whence th' ill omen'd herald comes, And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing? —Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold— Be ye content!—the glorious tale is told.
I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry! They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains; E'en now the homicides assail the sky With pæans, which indignant Heaven disdains! But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye Looks watchful down on our ensanguin'd plains, And with the cruel rapture of a foe, Numbers the mighty, stretch'd in death below.
Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending! Th' invader comes; your banners raise anew, Rush to the strife, your country's cause defending! Victors! why pause ye?—Are ye weak and few? Aye, such he deem'd you! and for this descending, He waits you on the field ye know too well, The same red war-field where your brethren fell.
Oh! thou devoted land! that canst not rear In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won, The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear Too narrow still for each contending son; Receive the stranger, in his fierce career, Parting thy spoils!—thy chastening is begun! And, wresting from thy chiefs the guardian sword, Foes, whom thou ne'er hadst wrong'd, sit proudly at thy board.
Are these infatuate too? Oh! who hath known A people e'er by guilt's vain triumph blest? The wrong'd, the vanquish'd, suffer not alone, Brief is the joy that swells th' oppressor's breast.
What though not yet his day of pride be flown, Though yet Heaven's vengeance spare his towering crest, Well hath it mark'd him—and ordain'd the hour When his last sigh shall own its mightier power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine? Form'd in one mould, to one redemption born? Kindred alike, where'er our skies may shine, Where'er our sight first drank the vital morn? Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine, And woe to him by whom that bond is torn! Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, Who bears down spirits of immortal birth!