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 allThat man may do.”Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”

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 with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide,Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

Long ages past!--they left her porphyry hallsStill trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and goldBroider’d her mantle, and her castled wallsFrown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which toldThe days were full. The pure high faith of oldWas changed; and on her silken couch of sleepShe lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s foldDisturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keepTheir watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwellingFree 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 intrudeWhere the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows;And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’dWith the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose;And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roarThrough Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seasA murmur comes, like that the deep winds boreFrom Tempe’s haunted river to the shoreOf the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old,Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’erTh’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d,But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.

And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashingThe parted waters, and a light is castOn their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashingOf 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 pass’dWhere low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep,O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

War from the West!--the snows on Thracian hillsAre loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the landsWhich Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rillsPour 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-handsAgainst the Golden City of the sea.--Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!

Hear yet again, ye mighty!--Where are theyWho, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d,Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array,As to a banquet gathering, at the soundOf Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round,From the pine forests, and the mountain snows,And the low sylvan valleys, to the boundOf the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose!--Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?

They slumber with their swords!--the olive shadesIn vain are whispering their immortal tale!In vain the spirit of the past pervadesThe 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 sailUpon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!--Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!

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 sleepingIn their proud graves of sainted chivalry,Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sighTo Syrian gales! The sons of each brave lineFrom their baronial halls shall hear your cry,And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine,And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!

All still, all voiceless!--and the billow’s roarAlone replies! Alike their soul is goneWho shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore,And theirs that o’er the field of AscalonSwell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou onThine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hourWhich waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is doneWith a strong heart: so may thy helmet towerUnshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!

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, reposeBeneath the shadowy marble porticoesOf thy proud villas. Nearer and more near,Around thy walls the sons of battle close;Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!

Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shadeWhere 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,And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.

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 splendour driven,To the still firmament’s expanse hath givenIts own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and towerStarts wildly forth; and now the air is rivenWith thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower,Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with theseA voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birthTo faith and courage! From luxurious easeA gallant few have started! O’er the seas,From the Seven Towers, their banner waves its sign;And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze,Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was thine;Thy soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.

Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from herThe fire that lives in thine undaunted eye?--That city of the throne and sepulchreHath 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’dWith its long march of spectred imagery,Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast?Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!

Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descendedLight from the living Fountain, whence each thoughtSprings pure and holy! In that eye is blendedA spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught,And, far within, a deeper meaning, caughtFrom worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust,Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought(Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust)In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain,And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ arrayOf awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,The Roman cast his glittering mail away,And while a silence, as of midnight, layO’er breathless thousands at his voice who started,Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that swayThe heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!

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 nameFar-floating on the winds! And Victory came,And made the hour of that immortal deedA life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aimHad sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleedWas to be Rome’s high star!--He died--and had his meed.

But praise--and dearer, holier praise be theirs,Who, in the stillness and the solitudeOf hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares,Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal foodOf restless energies, and only view’dBy Him whose eye, from his eternal throne,Is on the soul’s dark places; have subduedAnd vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown,To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.

Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrinedFar in the bosom! for their deeds belong,Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankindWith its rich pomp of festival and song,Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng;But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it triesMan’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strongThan storm or earthquake’s voice; for thence ariseAll that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.

Well might thy name, brave Constantine! awakeSuch thought, such feeling!--But the scene againBursts on my vision, as the day-beams breakThrough 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--The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streamingRed o’er the waters! 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 pourTheir clouds and thunders; but the rolling veilOf smoke floats up the exulting winds before!--And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!

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 scimitar!Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,Hands waving banners o’er each battlement,Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to barThe promised aid: but hark! a shout is sentUp from the noble barks!--the Moslem line is rent!

On, on through 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 lightOf festal halls; and there was joy!--the rayOf dying eyes, a moment wildly bright--The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.

For vain that feeble succour! Day by dayTh’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweepOf 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 sleepFlies far; and in their mien, the walls who tread,Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!

It was a sad and solemn task, to holdTheir 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 faneLay like the grave’s; a low mysterious callBreathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain,A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing,The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song;Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying,The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue.Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light alongThe marble streets, all stillness--not repose;And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to thoseWho see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.

But strength is from the Mightiest! There is oneStill in the breach and on the rampart seen,Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun,And tells in silence how the night hath beenIn kingly halls a vigil: yet sereneThe ray set deep within his thoughtful eye;And there is that in his collected mien,To which the hearts of noble men replyWith fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fateTo pass o’er earth in brightness but alone;High power was made their birthright, to createA thousand thoughts responsive to their own!A thousand echoes of their spirit’s toneStart into life, where’er their path may be,Still following fast; as when the wind hath blownO’er Indian groves, a wanderer wild and free,Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!

And it is thus with thee! thy lot is castOn evil days, thou Cæsar!--yet the few,That set their generous bosom to the blastWhich rocks thy throne--the fearless and the true,Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renewThe free devotion of the years gone by,When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drewEnduring strength! States vanish--ages fly--But leave one task unchanged--to suffer and to die!

These are our nature’s heritage. But thou,The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to shareA cup more bitter. On thy fever’d browThe semblance of that buoyant hope to wear,Which long had pass’d away; alone to bearThe rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that cameAs a strong billow in their weight of care,And with all this to smile! For earth-born frameThese are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field,On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sightOf human eyes, the human soul is steel’dTo deeds that seem as of immortal might,Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-lightCan pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not whereIn silence, and in secret, and in night,The noble heart doth wrestle with despair,And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.

Men have been firm in battle; they have stoodWith 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 standWhen not a beacon o’er the wave remains,Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land,Where Freedom dies with them--call these a martyr-band!

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 glanceFell on that stage, where man’s last agonyWas 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,The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.

The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraughtWith this of Liberty, that now the needIs 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 freedFrom tasks like these by misery: one aloneIs left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed,Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shownHow brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne.

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 highToss their wild spears: no meteor banners glare,No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair;And yet the signs are full: too truly seenIn the thinn’d ramparts, in the pale despairWhich lends one language to a people’s mien,And in the ruin’d heaps where wall and towers have been!

It is a night of beauty: such a nightAs, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade,Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright,Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and gladeTo sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervadeTheir forest haunts; a night to rove aloneWhere the young leaves by vernal winds are sway’d,And the reeds whisper with a dreamy toneOf melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;

A night to call from green Elysium’s bowersThe shades of elder bards; a night to holdUnseen communion with th’ inspiring powersThat 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 fillAnd wreathe the cup--for sorrows to be toldWhich love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still!It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!

It should come sweeping in the storm, and rendingThe 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,And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.

The heavens in still magnificence look downOn the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean streamSleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crownOf far Olympus, in the moonlight gleam,Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dreamThrong’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee;--But that is past--and now the One SupremeFills not alone those haunts, but earth, air, sea,And Time, which presses on to finish his decree.

Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thronesAnd 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 sightFor earth prepared than e’er, with tranquil brow,Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp,And Asia’s hills re-echo’d to a cryOf savage mirth! Wild horn and war-steeds’ trampBlent with the shout of barbarous revelry,The clash of desert-spears! Last night the skyA 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,Streaming to heaven’s bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!

But all is stillness now. May this be sleepWhich wraps those Eastern thousands? Yes! perchanceAlong yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep,Bright are their visions with the Houri’s glance,And they behold the sparkling fountains danceBeneath the bowers of paradise that shedRich odours o’er the faithful; but the lance,The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread,Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.

May this be sleep, this hush?--A sleepless eyeDoth hold its vigil midst that dusky race!One that would scan th’ abyss of destinyE’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 faceKindles beneath their aspect, and his mien,All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream,To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrinedIn depths of blue infinitude, and deemThey shine to guide the spoiler of mankindO’er fields of blood! But with the restless mindIt hath been ever thus! and they that weepFor worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’dTo human search, in daring pride would sweep,As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.

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 lightO’er burning Salem, by the Roman won;And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter doneIn Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blastRang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on!Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man castHis humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.

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,Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleamO’er the hush’d waters tremulously fall,Pour’d from the Cæsars’ palace; now the beamOf many lamps is brightening in the hall,And from its long arcades and pillars tallSoft graceful shadows undulating lieOn the wave’s heaving bosom, and recallA thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky,And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.

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 pourThrough its long avenues of terraced shade,Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!

In silence, and in arms! With helm--with sword--These are no marriage garments! Yet e’en nowThy nuptial feast should grace the regal board,Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely browWith an imperial diadem!--but thou,O fated prince! art call’d, and these with thee,To darker scenes; and thou hast learn’d to bowThine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree,And count it joy enough to perish--being free!

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 goIn desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls,Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!

And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, brightWith all we dream of splendour; yet a gloomSeems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight,A shadow that anticipates the tomb!Still from its fretted roof the lamps illumeA purple canopy, a golden throne;But it is empty!--hath the stroke of doomFallen there already? Where is He, the One,Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

Oh! there are times whose pleasure doth effaceEarth’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 hourWhich makes us kindred, by one chast’ning bow’d,And feeling but, as from the storm we cower,What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!

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 breakWith the first wind, have risen to deeds whose nameStill calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek,And thrill the pulse!--Ay, strength no pangs could tameHath look’d from woman’s eye upon the sword and flame!

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’dThe Greek’s heroic beauty, midst his band,The gather’d virtue of a sinking land--Alas! how scanty! Now is cast asideAll form of princely state; each noble handIs press’d by turns in his: for earthly prideThere is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!

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 allThe sad yet grand remembrances, that lieDeep with earth’s buried heroes; to recallThe soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

His words are full of faith!--and thoughts, more highThan Rome e’er 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 shameThe bravest in such moments! ’Tis a sightTo make all earthly splendours cold and tame,--That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!

They weep--those champions of the Cross--they weep,Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train,Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steepTheir lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain,And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stainA warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:The homes they never may behold again,Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!

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 fathers’ towersMidst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise:They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyesWhich long and vainly shall explore the mainFor their white sails’ return: the melodiesOf that sweet land are floating o’er their brain--Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!

Such moments come to thousands!--few may dieAmidst their native shades. The young, the brave,The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eyeMade summer in a parent’s heart, and gaveLight to their peopled homes; o’er land and waveAre scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fallFrom the deserted stem. They find a graveFar from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall,A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!

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 sideIn youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swellComes on the wind?--It is an empire’s knell,Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night!For the last time speaks forth the solemn bellWhich calls the Christians to their holiest rite,With a funereal voice of solitary might.

Again, and yet again! A startling powerIn sounds like these lives ever; for they bear,Full on remembrance, each eventful hourCheckering life’s crowded path. They fill the airWhen conquerors pass, and fearful cities wearA mien like joy’s; and when your brides are ledFrom their paternal homes; and when the glareOf burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red,And when the silent house receives its guest--the dead.

But to those tones what thrilling soul was givenOn that last night of empire! As a spellWhereby the life-blood to its source is driven,On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell.Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tellOf sceptres passing from their line away,An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell,The requiem of a faith’s departing sway,A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.

Again, and yet again!--from yon high dome,Still the slow peal comes awfully; and theyWho 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,Ere yet its thousand years of Christian pomp are o’er.

It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyesO’er which forgetfulness her balm hath shedIn 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 greetThe last brave Constantine; and yet the treadOf many steps is in the echoing street,And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.

Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thenceWith 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 highThe whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous boardHath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die!--No!--what are these?--for them a cup is pour’dMore dark with wrath,--man comes--the spoiler and the sword.

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains passThrough those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throwsOn some wild form, amidst the living mass,Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which discloseWhat countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer,Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward showsBetokening inward agonies, were there:Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!

But high above that scene, in bright repose,And beauty borrowing from the torches’ gleamsA mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows,But all instinct with loftier being seems,Pale, grand, colossal: lo! th’ embodied dreamsOf yore!--Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought,Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremesOf mortal passion! Yet ’twas man that caught,And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!

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, rang with choral lays,As the long triumph pass’d, with all its blazeOf regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne,O sovereign forms! concentring all the raysOf the soul’s lightnings?--did ye not adornThe pomp which earth stood still to gaze on, and to mourn?

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 wallsSerene ye smiled on banquets of despair,Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dareThe stroke of its deliverance, midst the glowOf living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air,The sound of lyres, the flower-crown’d goblet’s flow.--Behold again!--high hearts make nobler offerings now!

The stately fane is reach’d--and at its gateThe warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tideA stillness falls, while he whom regal stateHath mark’d from all, to be more sternly triedBy suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died,While his implores forgiveness!--“If there beOne midst your throngs, my people! whom, in prideOr passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon freeAs mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”

But all is silence; and a gush of tearsAlone replies! He hath not been of thoseWho, fear’d by many, pine in secret fearsOf 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 closeTheir hearts to misery, till the time is o’er,When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!

He hath been loved. But who may trust the loveOf a degenerate race?--in other mouldAre cast the free and lofty hearts that proveTheir faith through fiery trials. Yet behold,And call him not forsaken!--thoughts untoldHave lent his aspect calmness, and his treadMoves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfoldWithin its precincts! Isles and seas have shedTheir gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.

’Tis a proud vision--that most regal pileOf ancient days! The lamps are streaming brightFrom its rich altar, down each pillar’d aisle,Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sightIs lost in splendours, as the wavering lightDevelops on those walls the thousand dyesOf the vein’d marbles, which array their height,And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.

But gaze thou not on these; though heaven’s own huesIn their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie--Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuseArch, column, rich mosaic--pass thou byThe stately tombs, where Eastern Cæsars lie,Beneath their trophies: pause not here; for know,A deeper source of all sublimityLives in man’s bosom, than the world can showIn nature or in art--above, around, below.

Turn thou to mark (though tears may dim thy gaze)The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone:Heed not though gems and gold around it blaze;Those heads unhelm’d, those kneeling forms alone,Thus bow’d, look glorious here. The light is thrownFull 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,See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!

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 strainHath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow,Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!

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’erwornWith fears and watchings, to their homes retire.Nor is the balmy air of dayspring tornWith battle-sounds; the winds in sighs expire,And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.

The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve,And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swellOf angry seas, hath Nature won reprieveThus 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 shineFull on thy spirit’s dream!--Sleep, weary Constantine!

Doth the blast rise?--the clouded east is red,As if a storm were gathering; and I hearWhat seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,The soft and smother’d step of those that fearSurprise from ambush’d foes. Hark! yet more nearIt comes, a many-toned and mingled sound;A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere--A rolling, as of wheels that shake the groundFrom far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!

Wake! wake! They come from sea and shore ascendingIn hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,Through 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 engines’ sway,And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!

They fail not now, the generous band, that longHave ranged 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 drivenBack, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blownWith his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:Shout, warriors of the Cross!--for victory is of Heaven!

Stand firm! Again the Crescent host is rushing,And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep,With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushingFast 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,And o’er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again!

Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour,Of all terrific sounds!--the savage toneOf the wild horn, the cannon’s peal, the showerOf hissing darts, the crash of walls o’erthrown,The deep dull tambour’s beat--man’s voice aloneIs there unheard! Ye may not catch the cryOf trampled thousands--prayer, and shriek, and moan,All drown’d, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.

War-clouds have wrapt the city!--through their dunO’erloaded canopy, at times a blazeAs of an angry storm-presaging sun,From the Greek fire shoots up! and lightning raysFlash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze,And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air!--Ay! this is in the compass of our gaze,But fearful things unknown, untold, are there--Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair!

Woe, shame and woe!--A chief, a warrior flies,A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!--Oh God! that Nature’s passing agoniesThus, 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!Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail!--But there are tortures which thou canst not shun:The spirit is their prey--thy pangs are but begun!

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, shameLong glorious years. From many a lofty stemFall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame,And stars drop, fading from the diadem;But the bright past is theirs--there is no change for them!

Where art thou, Constantine?--where death is reapingHis 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 plyLike red Vesuvio; and where human mightConfronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.

Where art thou, Constantine?--where Christian bloodHath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain!Where faith and valour perish in the flood,Whose billows, rising o’er their bosoms, gainDark strength each moment; where the gallant slainAround the banner of the Cross lie strew’dThick as the vine-leaves on th’ autumnal plain;Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelmingmultitude.

Now is he battling midst a host alone,As the last cedar stems awhile the swayOf mountain storms, whose fury hath o’erthrownIts forest-brethren in their green array!And he hath cast his purple robe away,With its imperial bearings, that his swordAn iron ransom from the chain may pay,And win, what haply fate may yet accord,A soldier’s death--the all now left an empire’s lord!

Search for him now where bloodiest lie the filesWhich once were men, the faithful and the brave!Search for him now where loftiest rise the pilesOf shatter’d helms and shields which could not save,And crests and banners never more to waveIn the free winds of heaven! He is of thoseO’er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave,And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,Yet wake them not!--so deep their long and last repose!

Woe to the vanquish’d!--thus it hath been stillSince Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry!Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfilTheir task of wrath! In vain the victims fly;Hark! now each piercing tone of agonyBlends 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,And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!

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 bandAt evening met; ay, struggling hand to hand,Within the very chambers of their sleep,There have they taught the spoilers of the landIn chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep,To guard free homes! But ye!--kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!

’Tis eve--the storm hath died, the valiant restLow on their shields; the days fierce work is done,And blood-stain’d seas and burning towers attestIts fearful deeds. An empire’s race is run!Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sunUpon the captive city. Hark! a swell(Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won)Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tellThe Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!

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 longBeen lord alone within those gorgeous walls.And half that silence of the grave appalsThe conqueror’s heart. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour,Still comes the boding whisper, which recallsA thought of those impervious clouds that lowerO’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!

“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sungHer watch-song, and around th’ imperial throneThe spider weaves his web!”--Still darkly hungThat verse of omen, as a prophet’s tone,O’er his flush’d spirit. Years on years have flownTo prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air,That the coil’d snake may bask on sculptured stone,And nations clear the forest, to prepareFor the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!

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 nowBeyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high,The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow--But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!

“After life’s fitful fever thou sleep’st well!”We may not mourn thee! Sceptred chiefs, from whomThe earth received her destiny, and fellBefore them trembling--to a sterner doomHave oft been call’d. For them the dungeon’s gloom,With its cold starless midnight, hath been madeMore fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb,Without a tomb’s repose, the chain hath weigh’dTheir very soul to dust, with each high power decay’d.

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 noneReturn to tell, a spirit’s eye can seeThe things of earth: still may’st thou hail the sun,Which o’er thy land shall dawn, when freedom’s fight is won!

And the hour comes, in storm! A light is glancingFar 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,Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!

Arms glitter on the mountains, which of oldAwoke to freedom’s first heroic strain,And by the streams, once crimson, as they roll’dThe Persian helm and standard to the main;And the blue waves of Salamis againThrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply,With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain,Far as Platæa’s, where the mighty lie,Who crown’d so proudly there the bowl of liberty!

Bright land, with glory mantled o’er by song!Land of the vision-peopled hills, and streams,And fountains, whose deserted banks alongStill the soft air with inspiration teems;Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themesTo verse for ever; and of ruin’d shrines,That scarce look desolate beneath such beams,As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines?--When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?

Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear!--Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels waveO’er Mantinea’s earth?--doth Pindus rearHis snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave?And is there yet on Marathon a grave?And doth Eurotas lead his silvery lineBy Sparta’s ruins? And shall man, a slave,Bow’d to the dust, amid such scenes repine?--If e’er a soil was mark’d for freedom’s step, ’tis thine!

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 halls the Tartar sways:But not for long!--the spirit of those days,When the three hundred made their funeral pileOf Asia’s dead, is kindling, like the raysOf thy rejoicing sun, when first his smileWarms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.

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 trustOn Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable--but just.

The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified inSchiller’s poem, “Das Lied der Glocke.”

Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by personsresolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That ofVibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable.

The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and theTurks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had alsobeen commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. Thiscircumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy ofConstantine Palæologus:--

“Silent shall be the march; nor drum, nor trump,Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foeOur near approach betray: silent and softAs the pard’s velvet foot on Libya’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.”

One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platæa was annuallycommemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the Bowl ofLiberty, which was afterwards poured forth in libation.

The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the familieswho filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years of the EasternEmpire.