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.”
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 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.
II.
Long ages past!—they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls
Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep
She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold
Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep
Their 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 Tempe’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 pass’d
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 sea.[205]
—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 Œta’s shore,
And theirs that o’er the field of Ascalon
Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on
Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour
Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done
With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower
Unshiver’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 shade[206]
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 splendour 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 lower,
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 Towers,[207] 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 spectred imagery,[208]
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 away,[209]
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 Victory 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 arise
All 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
Through 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 waters![210] 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 the 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 scimitar!
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
Hands waving banners o’er each battlement,
Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar
The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent
Up from the noble barks!—the Moslem line is rent!
XXIV.
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 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 plain,
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.
XXVII.
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 along
The marble streets, all stillness—not repose;
And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those
Who 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 groves,[211] 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 bosom 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 shown
How 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 wall 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 tone
Of 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 wreathe 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 Olympus,[212] 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 e’er, 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-echo’d 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 moonlit 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 aspect,[213] 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 view’d the slaughter done
In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast
Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on!
Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast
His 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 wreathe her lovely brow
With an imperial diadem![214]—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
Fallen there already? Where is He, the One,
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?
LIII.
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.
[205] The army of Mohammed the Second, at the siege of Constantinople, was thronged with fanatics of all sects and nations, who were not enrolled amongst the regular troops.
The Sultan himself marched upon the city from Adrianople; but his army must have been principally collected in the Asiatic provinces, which he had previously visited.
[206]
“Huc vina, et unguenta, et nimium breves
Flores amœnæ ferre jube rosæ.”—Horace.
[207] The castle of the Seven Towers is mentioned in the Byzantine history, as early as the sixth century of the Christian era, as an edifice which contributed materially to the defence of Constantinople; and it was the principal bulwark of the town on the coast of the Propontis, in the later periods of the empire. For a description of this building, see Pouqueville’s Travels.
[208] An allusion to the Roman custom of carrying in procession, at the funerals of their great men, the images of their ancestors.
[209] The following was the ceremony of consecration with which Decius devoted himself in battle:—He was ordered by Valerius, the Pontifex Maximus, to quit his military habit, and put on the robe he wore in the senate. Valerius then covered his head with a veil, commanded him to put forth his hand under his robe to his chin, and, standing with both feet upon a javelin, to repeat these words:—“O Janus, Jupiter, Mars, Romulus, Bellona! and ye, Lares and Novensiles! All you heroes who dwell in heaven! and all ye gods who rule over us and our enemies—especially ye gods of hell!—I honour you, invoke you, and humbly entreat you to prosper the arms of the Romans, and to transfer all fear and terror from them to their enemies; and I do, for the safety of the Roman people, and their legions, devote myself, and with myself the army and auxiliaries of the enemy, to the infernal gods, and the goddess of the earth.” Decius then, girding his robe around them, mounted his horse, and rode full speed into the thickest of the enemy’s battalions. The Latins were, for a while, thunderstruck at this spectacle; but at length recovering themselves, they discharged a shower of darts, under which the Consul fell.
[210] See Gibbon’s animated description of the arrival of five Christian ships, with men and provisions, for the succour of the besieged, not many days before the fall of Constantinople.—Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol. xii. p. 215.
[211] “The summits of the lofty rocks in the Carnatic, particularly about the Ghauts, are sometimes covered with the bamboo tree, which grows in thick clumps, and is of such uncommon aridity that, in the sultry season of the year, the friction occasioned by a strong dry wind will literally produce sparks of fire, which, frequently setting the woods in a blaze, exhibit to the spectator stationed in a valley surrounded by rocks, a magnificent though imperfect circle of fire.”—Notes to Kindersley’s Specimens of Hindoo Literature.
[212] Those who steer their westward course through the middle of the Propontis may at once descry the high lands of Thrace and Bithynia, and never lose sight of the lofty summit of Mount Olympus, covered with eternal snows.—Decline and Fall, &c. vol. iii. p. 8.
[213] Mohammed II. was greatly addicted to the study of astrology. His calculations in this science led him to fix upon the morning of the 29th of May, as the fortunate hour for a general attack upon the city.
[214] Constantine Palæologus was betrothed to a Georgian princess, and the very spring which witnessed the fall of Constantinople had been fixed upon as the time for conveying the imperial bride to that city.
[215] Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were foreigners, and chiefly Italians.
[216] This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a beautiful song of Goethe’s:—
“Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen bluhn
Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen gluhn?” etc.
[217] The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified in Schiller’s poem, “Das Lied der Glocke.”
[218] It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is announced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard in the streets at midnight; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, who summons the devoted person by name.
[219] Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable.
[220] For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries, employed in the construction of St Sophia, see The Decline and Fall, &c., vol. vii. p. 120.
[221] The assault of the city took place at daybreak, and the Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also been commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of Constantine Palæologus:—
“Silent shall be the march; nor drum, nor trump, Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe Our near approach betray: silent and soft As the pard’s velvet foot on 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.”
[222] “After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and preserved their advantage,” says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune of the day.
[223] “A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople is the union of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and the battering-ram were directed against the same wall; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and inextinguishable fire.”—Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii., p. 213.
[224] “The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniani, (a Genoese chief.) The sight of his blood and exquisite pain appalled the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest rampart of the city.”—Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 229.
[225] Mohammed II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. “A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry: ‘The spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab.’”—Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 240.
[226] One of the ceremonies by which the battle of Platæa was annually commemorated was, to crown with wine a cup called the Bowl of Liberty, which was afterwards poured forth in libation.
[227] The Comneni were amongst the most distinguished of the families who filled the Byzantine throne in the declining years of the Eastern Empire.
Annotation on “The Last Constantine.”
[It may seem necessary to mention that “The Last Constantine” first appeared in a volume (Murray, 1823) along with “Belshazzar’s Feast,” the “Siege of Valencia,” and some lyrical miscellanies.
“The present publication appears to us, (Dr Morehead in Constable’s Magazine, Sept. 1823,) in every respect superior to any thing Mrs Hemans has yet written: more powerful in particular passages—more interesting in the narrative part—as pathetic and delicate in the reflective—as elaborately faultless in its versification—as copious in imagery. Of the longer poems, ‘The Last Constantine’ is our favourite.... The leading features of Constantine’s character seem to be taken from the unequal, but, on the whole, admirable play of Constantine Palæologus, by the gifted rival of our authoress, Joanna Baillie; and the picture of that enduring and Christian courage which, in the midst of a ruined city and a fallen state, sustained the last of the Cæsars, when all earthly hope and help had failed him, is eminently touching and poetical. The following stanzas appear to us particularly beautiful:—
‘Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle,’ etc.
The following stanzas, too, in which the leading idea of Constantine’s character is still more fully brought out, are likewise excellent:—
‘It was a sad and solemn task to hold
Their midnight watch on that beleaguer’d wall,’ etc.
These are splendid passages, justly conceived, admirably expressed, full of eloquence and melody; and the poem contains many others equally beautiful. As we have already hinted, the story might have been better told—or rather, there is scarcely any story at all; but the reader is borne down the stream of pensive reflection so gently, and so easily, that he scarcely perceives the want of it.”]