 | Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems |  |
163
THE DREAM OF MAHOMET II.
168
Sultaun! Sultaun!
Thou art Lord of the World!
The crown of its crowns
At thy footstool is hurled.
Now trembles the West,
The East kneels before thee;
Joy, joy to the breast
Of the mother that bore thee.
Earth's tale shall be told,
Ere thy banner's green fold
Is dust, or thy name
Is no longer a flame!
Thou art Lord of the World!
The crown of its crowns
At thy footstool is hurled.
Now trembles the West,
The East kneels before thee;
Joy, joy to the breast
Of the mother that bore thee.
Earth's tale shall be told,
Ere thy banner's green fold
Is dust, or thy name
Is no longer a flame!
Hark, hark! to the shouts,
Where thy Turcomans lie,
Round the feast on the ramparts,
That blaze to the sky.
Where the battlements reck
With the gore of the Storm;
And the spoils of the Greek
With his heart's-blood are warm;
And his new-wedded bride,
By the conqueror's side,
As his corpse, wan and cold,
Sits in fetters of gold!
Where thy Turcomans lie,
Round the feast on the ramparts,
That blaze to the sky.
Where the battlements reck
With the gore of the Storm;
And the spoils of the Greek
With his heart's-blood are warm;
169
By the conqueror's side,
As his corpse, wan and cold,
Sits in fetters of gold!
High hour in the Palace!
There sits at the board,
With Imaum and warrior,
The King of the Sword!
And shouting they quaff
The Infidel wine,
And loudly they laugh
At the hypocrite's whine.
“Let women and boys
Shrink from Earth and its joys.
Was the grape only given
For Houris and Heaven?”
There sits at the board,
With Imaum and warrior,
The King of the Sword!
And shouting they quaff
The Infidel wine,
And loudly they laugh
At the hypocrite's whine.
“Let women and boys
Shrink from Earth and its joys.
Was the grape only given
For Houris and Heaven?”
Now the banquet is ended;
The cannon's last roar
Has welcomed the night
On the Bosphorus' shore.
Now the sweet dew of slumber
Has fallen on each eye;
And, like gems without number,
The stars fill the sky;
And no echo is heard,
But the night-chaunting bird;
And the tissues are drawn
Round thy chamber, Sultaun!
The cannon's last roar
Has welcomed the night
On the Bosphorus' shore.
170
Has fallen on each eye;
And, like gems without number,
The stars fill the sky;
And no echo is heard,
But the night-chaunting bird;
And the tissues are drawn
Round thy chamber, Sultaun!
There is pomp in that chamber,
That dazzles the eye;
The ivory and amber,
The loom's Indian dye;
The diamond-starred shield,
That its keen lustre flings,
Where the golden lamp streams
On the King of Earth's Kings.
Yet, the pale, watching slave,
Who hears thy lip rave;
And hears that heart-groan,
Would shrink from thy throne!
That dazzles the eye;
The ivory and amber,
The loom's Indian dye;
The diamond-starred shield,
That its keen lustre flings,
Where the golden lamp streams
On the King of Earth's Kings.
Yet, the pale, watching slave,
Who hears thy lip rave;
And hears that heart-groan,
Would shrink from thy throne!
171
Sultaun! Sultaun!
Why thus writhe in thy sleep,
Why grasp at thy dagger,
Why shudder and weep?
There are drops on thy brow,
Thick-falling as rain;
The wringings of woe
From the heart and the brain.
And thy cheek's now blood-red,
Now pale as the dead!
Art thou corpse? art thou man!
Sultaun! Sultaun!
Why thus writhe in thy sleep,
Why grasp at thy dagger,
Why shudder and weep?
There are drops on thy brow,
Thick-falling as rain;
The wringings of woe
From the heart and the brain.
And thy cheek's now blood-red,
Now pale as the dead!
Art thou corpse? art thou man!
Sultaun! Sultaun!
There are visions unsleeping,
Before that closed eye!
Hosts rushing o'er Earth,
Hosts plunged from the sky;
And Fields thick with carnage,
And Cities in flame,
And Rulers of darkness,
That Man dares not name.
The Sultaun feels a grasp,
Like a serpent's strong clasp;
And from Earth he upsprings,
In a whirlwind of wings!
Before that closed eye!
Hosts rushing o'er Earth,
Hosts plunged from the sky;
And Fields thick with carnage,
And Cities in flame,
And Rulers of darkness,
That Man dares not name.
172
Like a serpent's strong clasp;
And from Earth he upsprings,
In a whirlwind of wings!
Now, he shoots through the clouds,
Till the sounds of Earth die;
Through fire, and through floods,
Till the Stars seem to fly.
Then, he shoots down again;
He is standing alone,
On a measureless plain.
And around him are strown,
Wrecks of time-mouldered bones,
Crushed under their thrones;
And the viper's dark swarms,
Twining jewels and arms!
Till the sounds of Earth die;
Through fire, and through floods,
Till the Stars seem to fly.
Then, he shoots down again;
He is standing alone,
On a measureless plain.
And around him are strown,
Wrecks of time-mouldered bones,
Crushed under their thrones;
And the viper's dark swarms,
Twining jewels and arms!
Then, like rushing of cataracts,
Uttered a Voice:—
“Wilt thou see what shall come?
Man of Fate, take thy choice.
Who the future will know,
Shall see clouds on his Dawn.”—
“Come weal or come woe,”
High spoke the Sultaun!
Then the Plain seemed to reel
With the clashing of steel,
And upburst a roar,
Like the Sea on the shore.
Uttered a Voice:—
“Wilt thou see what shall come?
Man of Fate, take thy choice.
173
Shall see clouds on his Dawn.”—
“Come weal or come woe,”
High spoke the Sultaun!
Then the Plain seemed to reel
With the clashing of steel,
And upburst a roar,
Like the Sea on the shore.
“I see on the Desert
The gatherings of gloom:”—
“Those clouds are thy Moslems,
The armies of doom!”
Then, the Danube was blood,
And Buda was flame,
And Hungary's lion
Lay fettered and tame.
Then fell proud Belgrade,
Nor the torrent was stayed,
Till, Vienna, it rolled
Round thy turrets of gold!
The gatherings of gloom:”—
“Those clouds are thy Moslems,
The armies of doom!”
Then, the Danube was blood,
And Buda was flame,
And Hungary's lion
Lay fettered and tame.
Then fell proud Belgrade,
Nor the torrent was stayed,
Till, Vienna, it rolled
Round thy turrets of gold!
174
Ho! Princes of Christendom
Shrink at the sound;
Ho! cling to thine altar,
Old King, triple crowned!
Ay, look from thy Vatican;
All is despair;
Thy Saints have forgot thee,
No Charlemagne is there!—
But a haze, deep and dun,
Swept over the Sun;
And the Pageant was fled,
All was still as the dead!
Shrink at the sound;
Ho! cling to thine altar,
Old King, triple crowned!
Ay, look from thy Vatican;
All is despair;
Thy Saints have forgot thee,
No Charlemagne is there!—
But a haze, deep and dun,
Swept over the Sun;
And the Pageant was fled,
All was still as the dead!
Then the Plain was a sea
Of magnificent blue;
And in pomp o'er the waters
The Crescent-flag flew.
There, the haughty Venetian
Came sullen and pale;
And on wall and on rampart
The gun poured its hail.
Where thy warriors, St. John,
Stood, like lions alone!
Till the trench was a grave
For the last of the brave!
Of magnificent blue;
And in pomp o'er the waters
The Crescent-flag flew.
There, the haughty Venetian
Came sullen and pale;
And on wall and on rampart
The gun poured its hail.
175
Stood, like lions alone!
Till the trench was a grave
For the last of the brave!
Then, all passed away,
Fleet and rampart were gone;
He heard the last shout,
The trumpet's last tone.
But o'er the wild heath
Fell the rich Eastern night:
The rose gave her breath,
The Moon gave her light.
'Twas the Bosphorus' stream
That reflected her gleam;
And the turrets that shone
In that light were His own!
Fleet and rampart were gone;
He heard the last shout,
The trumpet's last tone.
But o'er the wild heath
Fell the rich Eastern night:
The rose gave her breath,
The Moon gave her light.
'Twas the Bosphorus' stream
That reflected her gleam;
And the turrets that shone
In that light were His own!
“Sultaun! Sultaun!
Now look on thy shame;”
In a silken Kiosk
Lay a vice-decayed frame.
And before his faint gaze,
To voice and to string,
Danced his soft Odalisques,
Like birds on the wing.
There was mirth mixed with madness,
Strange revel, strange sadness;
The bowstring and bowl,
The sense and the soul!
Now look on thy shame;”
In a silken Kiosk
Lay a vice-decayed frame.
176
To voice and to string,
Danced his soft Odalisques,
Like birds on the wing.
There was mirth mixed with madness,
Strange revel, strange sadness;
The bowstring and bowl,
The sense and the soul!
Where are now his old warriors?
All tombed in their mail:
Where his Banner of Glory?
Let none tell the tale.
But the gilded caique
Floated smooth as a dove;
And the song of the minstrel
Was Beauty and Love!
The Sultaun, with a groan,
Saw the son of his throne
Slave to Woman and Wine:
Well he knew the dark Sign.
All tombed in their mail:
Where his Banner of Glory?
Let none tell the tale.
But the gilded caique
Floated smooth as a dove;
And the song of the minstrel
Was Beauty and Love!
The Sultaun, with a groan,
Saw the son of his throne
Slave to Woman and Wine:
Well he knew the dark Sign.
177
But vengeance was nigh,
On the air burst a yell;
And the cup from the grasp
Of the reveller fell.
Who rush through the chambers
With hourra and drum?
The Janizar thousands,
The blood-drinkers come!
Then, a thrust of the lance,
And a wild, dying glance,
And a heart-gush of gore,
And all's hushed—and all's o'er.
On the air burst a yell;
And the cup from the grasp
Of the reveller fell.
Who rush through the chambers
With hourra and drum?
The Janizar thousands,
The blood-drinkers come!
Then, a thrust of the lance,
And a wild, dying glance,
And a heart-gush of gore,
And all's hushed—and all's o'er.
Then again came thick darkness,
Till dawned a new day;
But no glory of thine
Was awaked by the ray.
Thy kingdoms, like gems
From thy turban, were torn;
The cusps from the horns
Of the Crescent were shorn.
The Muscovite roar
Echoed round thy pale shore;
And the brand seemed to glow
O'er thy City of woe!
Till dawned a new day;
But no glory of thine
Was awaked by the ray.
Thy kingdoms, like gems
From thy turban, were torn;
The cusps from the horns
Of the Crescent were shorn.
178
Echoed round thy pale shore;
And the brand seemed to glow
O'er thy City of woe!
Ay, mightiest of conquerors!
Well may'st thou weep,
And struggle to rend
The dark fetters of sleep.
Before thee stands Azrael,
The King of the Tomb;
At his call rise the Spirits
Of War on the gloom.
From South and from North
Come the torturers forth;
Till the flags of the world
Round Stamboul are unfurled!
Well may'st thou weep,
And struggle to rend
The dark fetters of sleep.
Before thee stands Azrael,
The King of the Tomb;
At his call rise the Spirits
Of War on the gloom.
From South and from North
Come the torturers forth;
Till the flags of the world
Round Stamboul are unfurled!
Why pauses the sword,
That thirsts in the hand?
Does the thunder-burst wait,
But the final command!
It shall rush like a deluge,
The terrible birth
Of the vengeance of Heaven,
And madness of earth.
When Sovereign and slave
Shall be foam on its wave;
Thy kingdom is gone—
Sultaun! Sultaun
That thirsts in the hand?
Does the thunder-burst wait,
But the final command!
179
The terrible birth
Of the vengeance of Heaven,
And madness of earth.
When Sovereign and slave
Shall be foam on its wave;
Thy kingdom is gone—
Sultaun! Sultaun
| Scenes from Scripture with Other Poems | |