Oh! there are times whose pleasure 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 tame
Hath 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 press’d by turns in his: for earthly pride
There 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 recall
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

LVII.

His words are full of faith!—and thoughts, more high
Than 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 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! Ay, 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:[215]
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.

Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?[216]
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes?
—It is their own. They see their fathers’ 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 sails’ 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
Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
A mien like joy’s; and when your 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 dead.[217]

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![218]
—No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour’d
More 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 torch-light 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!

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

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,[219]
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.
—Behold again!—high hearts make nobler offerings now!

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
As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”

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,
When it speaks low and kneels th’ oppressor’s throne before!

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
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.

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
Develops on those walls the thousand dyes
Of the vein’d marbles, which array their height,
And from yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes,[220]
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.

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
In nature or in art—above, around, below.

LXXVI.

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 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,
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!

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

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;[221] the winds in sighs expire,
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam’s fire.

LXXIX.

The city sleeps! Ay! 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
Full on thy spirit’s dream!—Sleep, weary Constantine!

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-toned and mingled sound;
A rustling, as of winds, where boughs are sere—
A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!

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,
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!

LXXXII.

They fail not now, the generous band, that long
Have 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 driven
Back, like the Red Sea waves, when God had blown
With his strong winds! The dark-brow’d ranks are riven:[222]
Shout, warriors of the Cross!—for victory is of Heaven!

LXXXIII.

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 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,
And o’er that fearful bridge the assailants mount again!

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,
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory.

LXXXV.

War-clouds have wrapt the city!—through their dun
O’erloaded canopy, at times a blaze
As of an angry storm-presaging sun,
From the Greek fire shoots up![223] and lightning rays
Flash, 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!

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![224]
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!

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;
But the bright past is theirs—there is no change for them!

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,
While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.

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 th’ autumnal plain;
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,
And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelming
multitude.

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,
A soldier’s death—the all now left an empire’s lord!

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,
Yet wake them not!—so deep their long and last repose!

XCII.

Woe to the vanquish’d!—thus it hath been still
Since Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry!
Ay, 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,
And roused and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!

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; ay, 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,
To guard free homes! But ye!—kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!

XCIV.

’Tis eve—the storm hath died, the valiant rest
Low on their shields; the days 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
The Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!

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. Ay! thus, with triumph’s hour,
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls
A thought of those impervious clouds that lower
O’er grandeur’s path, a sense of some far mightier Power!

XCVI.

“The owl upon Afrasiab’s towers hath sung
Her watch-song,[225] and around th’ imperial throne
The spider weaves his web!”—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 sculptured stone,
And nations clear the forest, to prepare
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!

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—
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!

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
Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay’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,
Which o’er thy land shall dawn, when freedom’s fight is won!

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,
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!

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,
Who crown’d so proudly there the bowl of liberty![226]

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?
—When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?

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?
—If e’er a soil was mark’d for freedom’s step, ’tis thine!

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 halls the Tartar sways:[227]
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
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.

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
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable—but just.