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

Front matter

THE

SIEGE OF VALENCIA;

A DRAMATIC POEM.

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,Pour'd by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

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 keepTheir watch, that no rude sound might reach her o'er the deep.

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,And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

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,But, past the Persian's chain, in boundless freedom roll'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,O'ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

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 sea1:—Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!

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!—Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb's repose?

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!—Awake! and summon those, who yet, perchance, may hear!

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,And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!

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 towerUnshiver'd through the storm, for generous hope is power!

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,Which the deep grave alone is charter'd not to hear.

XII.

Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade2, 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,And from the startled hand th' untasted cup will fall.

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,Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow'd hour.

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 Towers3, 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.

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'ry4, Th' heroic mantle o'er thy spirit cast?—Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!

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,)In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.

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 away5, 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,Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed.

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,Was to be Rome's high star!—He died—and had his meed.

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,To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.

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 ariseAll that mysterious world's unseen sublimities.

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,The sun, the desert, stamp'd in each dark haughty face.

XXII.

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming Red o'er the waters6! 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!—And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!

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 sentUp from the noble barks!—the Moslem line is rent!

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,The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight!

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,Things, by the brave untold, may fearfully be read!

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 plainA voice of omens rose, with each wild martial strain.

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 thoseWho see their number'd hours fast pressing to the close.

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,With fires, partaking not this frame's mortality!

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 groves7, a wanderer wild and free,Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!

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—But leave one task unchanged—to suffer and to die!

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,These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!

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,And rise more strong than death from its unwitness'd prayer.

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,Where Freedom dies with them—call these a martyr-band!

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,The vanquish'd proudly met the doom he met in vain.

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 shownHow brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne!

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,And in the ruin'd heaps where walls and towers have been!

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 toneOf melody, that seems to breathe from worlds unknown.

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!—It is a night of fate, stamp'd with Almighty Will!

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,And when His thunders cleave the monarch-mountain's brow.

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 Olympus8, 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,And Time, which presses on, to finish his decree.

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,Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!

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,Streaming to heaven's bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!

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,Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.

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 aspect9, and his mien,All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.

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,As o'er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.

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 castHis humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.

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,Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!

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,And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.

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,Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!

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 diadem10!—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,And count it joy enough to perish—being free!

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,Sad seems the light itself, which on their armour falls!

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,Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

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,What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!

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 tameHath look'd from woman's eye upon the sword and flame!

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 prideThere is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!

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 recallThe soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

LVII.

HedleyVicarsp80His 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,—That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!

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 here11— 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!

LIX.

12Know'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——Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!

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,—A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!

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,With a funereal voice of solitary might.

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,And when the silent house receives its guest—the dead13.

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,A throne's, a nation's dirge, a wail for earth's decay.

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,Ere yet its thousand years of christian pomp are o'er.

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,And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.

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'd14More dark with wrath;—Man comes—the spoiler and the sword.

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:—Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!

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,And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!