The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly :: :: University of Virginia Library

This man was one of the bold creations of wild countries and troubled times; beings of impetuous courage, iron strength, original talent, and doubtful morality. Civilization levels and subdues the inequalities of the general mind; barbarism shows, with the desolation, the grandeur of the wilderness,—the dwarfed and the gigantic side by side, a thousand diminished and decaying productions overshadowed by one mighty effort of savage fertility.

Georges Petrowich was descended from a family of Servian nobles. His habitual name of Czerni (black) was given probably from the colour of his hair. His

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daring spirit first exhibited itself in an act of personal violence. When a boy, and ordered by a Turk to stand out of his way, or have his brains blown out, he shot the Turk on the spot. Hatred of the oppressors of his country was probably mingled here with individual temper. Czerni George took immediate refuge in Transylvania, and entered the Austrian service, where he was made a non-commissioned officer. He subsequently quarrelled with his captain, challenged, killed him; and fled to Servia. He was now but twenty-five, yet he raised an insurrection; fought the Turks with remorseless hostility; by signal gallantry, perseverance, and talent embodied an army of his countrymen; bore down the Turks before him, besieged Belgrade, and on the 1st of December, 1806, forced it to capitulate.

He was now master of a kingdom, was proclaimed generalissimo of Servia, repelled an attempt of the senate of nobles and ecclesiastics to repossess the government, and by proclamation declared himself “Supreme.”

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The Mussulman power was awakened by this proximity of triumphant opposition, and an army of 50,000 men passed the Servian frontier. Czerni fought long and desperately on the banks of the Saave, but his small population gave way before the mass of the Turkish power. At the Treaty of 1812, between Russia and the Porte, Servia acknowledged herself tributary to the Sultan. Czerni retired to Russia, and lived at Kissonoff, in Bessarabia. In 1817, he had the rashness to return to Servia. He was taken in disguise near Belgrade, and immediately beheaded by order of the Pashaw. The object of his return is unascertained; it was said to be the possession of some treasure hidden during his day of success: it was supposed by the Turks to be an attempt to feel his way to massacre once more. It might have been urged by the restlessness of a vigorous mind weary of inactivity; or by the nobler impulse of giving independence to his country, at a time when Europe was exulting in the overthrow of the French Empire.

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His appearance was striking and singular. He was boldly formed, and above the general stature. But the extraordinary length of his physiognomy, his sunken eyes, and his bald forehead, bound with a single black tress of hair, gave him a look rather Asiatic than European. It was his custom to sit in silence for hours together; he could neither read nor write, but he was a great warrior, and, for the time, a deliverer of his country.

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'Twas noon! a blood-red banner play'd
Above thy rampart porte, Belgrade;
From time to time the gong's deep swell
Rose thundering from the citadel;
And soon the trampling charger's din
Told of some mustering pomp within.
But all without was still and drear,
The long streets wore the hue of fear,
All desert, but where some quick eye
Peer'd from the curtain'd gallery.
Or crouching slow from roof to roof,
The Servian glanced, then shrank aloof,

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Eager, yet dreading to look on
The business to be that day done.
The din grew louder, crowding feet
Seem'd rushing to the central street;
'Twas fill'd; the city's idle brood
Scatter'd before, few, haggard, rude:
Then come the Spahis bounding on
With kettle-drum and gonfalon;
And ever, at the cymbal's clash,
Upshook their spears the sudden flash,
Till, like a shatter'd, sable sail,
Wheel'd o'er their rear the black horse-tail,
All hurrying on, like men who yield,
Or men who seek, some final field.

They lead a captive; the Pashaw
From his large eye draws back with awe;
All tongues are silent in the group,
Who round that fearful stranger troop:
He still has homage, though his hands
Are straining in a felon's bands.

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No Moslem he; his brow is bare,
Save one wild tress of raven hair,
Like a black serpent deeply bound,
Where once sat Servia's golden round.
His neck bends low, and many a stain
Of blood shows how it feels the chain;
A peasant's robe is o'er him flung,
A swordless sheath beside him hung;
He sits a charger, but a slave
Now holds the bridle of the brave.

And now they line the palace-square,
A splendid sight, as noon's full glare
Pours on their proud caparison,
Arms rough with gold and dazzling stone,
Horse-nets, and shawls of Indian dye,
O'er brows of savage majesty.
But where's the fetter'd rider now?
A flag above, a block below,
An Ethiop headsman low'ring near,
Show where must close his stern career.

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A thousand eyes are fix'd to mark
The fading of his eye's deep spark,
The quicken'd heaving of his breast;
But all within it is at rest:
There is no quivering nerve; his brow
Scarce bent upon the crowd below,
He stands in settled, stately gloom,
A warrior's statue on his tomb.

A trumpet rang;—the turban'd line
Clash'd up their spears, the headsman's sign.
Then, like the iron in the forge,
Blazed thy dark visage, Czerni George!
He knew that trumpet's Turkish wail,
His guide through many a forest vale,
When, scattering like the hunted deer,
The Moslem felt his early spear;
He heard it when the Servian targe
Broke down the Delhi's desperate charge,
And o'er the flight his scimitar
Was like the flashing of a star:

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That day, his courser to the knee
Was bathed in blood, and Servia free!
That day, before he sheathed his blade,
He stood a sovereign in Belgrade;
The field, the throne were on that eye,
Which wander'd now so wild and high.

The hour had waned; the sunbeam fell
Full on the palace pinnacle,
The golden crescent on its spire
Beam'd o'er a cross! his eye shot fire;
That cross was o'er the crescent set,
The day he won the coronet.
He dash'd away a tear of pride,
His hand was darted to his side,
No sword was there:—a bitter smile
Told the stern spirit's final thrill;
Yet all not agony; afar,
Mark'd he no cloud of northern war?
Swell'd on his prophet ear no clang
Of tribes that to their saddles sprang?

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No Russian cannon's heavy hail
In vengeance smiting the Serail?
The whole was but a moment's trance,
That 'scaped the turban'd rabble's glance;
A sigh, a stride, a stamp the whole,
Time measures not the tides of soul.
He was absorb'd in dreams, not saw
The hurried glare of the Pashaw;
Nor saw the headsman's backward leap,
To give his axe the wider sweep.
Down came the blow;—the self-same smile
Was lingering on the dead lip still,
When 'mid the train the pikeman bore
The bloody head of the Pandour.

The night was wild, the atabal
Scarce echoed on the rampart wall;
Scarce heard the shrinking centinel,
The night-horn in that tempest's yell.
But forms, as shot the lightning's glare,
Stole silent through that palace-square,

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And thick and dim a weeping group
Seem'd o'er its central spot to stoop.
The storm a moment paused, the moon
Broad from a hurrying cloud-rift shone;
It shone upon a headless trunk,
Raised in their arms; the moonbeam sunk,
And all was dimness; but the beat
Came sudden as of parting feet,
And sweet and solemn voices pined
In the low lapses of the wind.
'Twas like the hymn, when soldiers bear
A soldier to his sepulchre.

The lightning threw a shaft below,
The stately square was desert now.
Yet far, as far as eye could strain,
Was seen the remnant of a train;
A wavering shadow of a crowd,
That round some noble burden bow'd.
'Twas gone, and all was night once more,
Wild rain, and whirlwind's doubled roar.