Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse Consisting of the Epistolary Correspondence of Many Distinguished Characters. With Notes and Illustrations. By the Rev. R. Polwhele |
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| 4. | CANTO THE FOURTH. |
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 | Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse |  |
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Procession to St. Sophia—Description of the Temple —Prostration before the Altar.
The expanding portals of the Palace creak;
And ‘the small ministering band’ come silent, slow
As on the sight the imperial banners break,
Friends, that had walk'd in God's own house, they go
Circling their sire: yet not the sable show,
The minute-march of death was theirs! The mood
Of patient virtue brooks not measured woe!
In those calm features no misgivings brood,
But resignation blends with manly fortitude.
And ‘the small ministering band’ come silent, slow
As on the sight the imperial banners break,
Friends, that had walk'd in God's own house, they go
Circling their sire: yet not the sable show,
The minute-march of death was theirs! The mood
Of patient virtue brooks not measured woe!
In those calm features no misgivings brood,
But resignation blends with manly fortitude.
Yet, Queen of Cities, yet thy marble fanes,
Thine ivory palaces, alas! they mourn
As to the imaginings of fear, their vanes—
Their pinnacles each seems a funeral urn!
Thy streets—some spectre, sure, at every turn
Hath scared them into stillness! But that haze—
'Tis the soft evening-mist of Maia born—
The dewy wreath which glistening to the gaze,
With amber is now rich, and now with rosy rays.
Thine ivory palaces, alas! they mourn
As to the imaginings of fear, their vanes—
Their pinnacles each seems a funeral urn!
Thy streets—some spectre, sure, at every turn
Hath scared them into stillness! But that haze—
'Tis the soft evening-mist of Maia born—
The dewy wreath which glistening to the gaze,
With amber is now rich, and now with rosy rays.
The damsel look'd out from her window, lone,
In grief, and sigh'd. 'Twas not Calirrhoe's sigh!
And (as the lattice here to Hesper shone)
Amongst a woe-worn groupe, might you descry
In asking innocence the troubled eye.
To ‘the great porch’ ‘the ministering band’ advance:
And on the Patriarch's gray beard, fitfully,
The crescent-noon flung quick like lightning, glance
On glance! Foreboding shades pass'd o'er each countenance!
In grief, and sigh'd. 'Twas not Calirrhoe's sigh!
And (as the lattice here to Hesper shone)
Amongst a woe-worn groupe, might you descry
In asking innocence the troubled eye.
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And on the Patriarch's gray beard, fitfully,
The crescent-noon flung quick like lightning, glance
On glance! Foreboding shades pass'd o'er each countenance!
Alas! but erst how dazzling was the pomp!
From Galata to Pera, thrill'd the sound
Of dulcimer and tabret, harp and trump!
And each obsequious forehead grazed the ground;
From pawing barbs, the prancings and the bound,
The crowd flew backward, as the shadow fleets,
Whirl'd with the rack of Heaven! And brandish'd round
Flash'd falchions, helmets blazed! The garnish'd streets
From censers of pure gold effused Arabia's sweets.
From Galata to Pera, thrill'd the sound
Of dulcimer and tabret, harp and trump!
And each obsequious forehead grazed the ground;
From pawing barbs, the prancings and the bound,
The crowd flew backward, as the shadow fleets,
Whirl'd with the rack of Heaven! And brandish'd round
Flash'd falchions, helmets blazed! The garnish'd streets
From censers of pure gold effused Arabia's sweets.
From all the embellish'd lattices, were flowers
Of every tincture, every smell, rain'd down
(As young-ey'd maidens laugh'd) in gentle showers!
The gilt balcony had the victor's crown,
And was with costliest hangings, silken-brown
Or silvery white, in gay assemblage hung:
And the priest's purple, and the sable gown
In low obeisance bow'd. The sons of song
Their prince and patriarch hail'd, and the high galleries rung.
Of every tincture, every smell, rain'd down
(As young-ey'd maidens laugh'd) in gentle showers!
The gilt balcony had the victor's crown,
And was with costliest hangings, silken-brown
Or silvery white, in gay assemblage hung:
And the priest's purple, and the sable gown
In low obeisance bow'd. The sons of song
Their prince and patriarch hail'd, and the high galleries rung.
But hark!—upon the waves of air, it bore
Its burden, “swinging-slow”! St. Sophia's bell
Heavily knolling—“its long sullen roar”
Reverberates, loud and lingering! Now it fell,
As if from overhead with stunning swell!
Now more subdued, a melancholy tone
Speaks as of parted visions! 'Tis the knell
Of other times, of generations gone!
'Tis past—for aye 'tis past—a deep heart-rending moan.
Its burden, “swinging-slow”! St. Sophia's bell
Heavily knolling—“its long sullen roar”
Reverberates, loud and lingering! Now it fell,
As if from overhead with stunning swell!
Now more subdued, a melancholy tone
Speaks as of parted visions! 'Tis the knell
Of other times, of generations gone!
'Tis past—for aye 'tis past—a deep heart-rending moan.
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Yes! 'twas a deep moan—past, for ever past!
And yet a floating murmur seems to meet
The sense. 'Tis like a warble o'er the waste,
The gurgling as of distant waters—sweet
In dying cadence! Shall the Christian greet
The warning sound so pleasant to the ear,
No more? How many an age have bosoms beat
In holy transport, whilst assembled here
These courts the pious trod—to saints and martyrs dear!
And yet a floating murmur seems to meet
The sense. 'Tis like a warble o'er the waste,
The gurgling as of distant waters—sweet
In dying cadence! Shall the Christian greet
The warning sound so pleasant to the ear,
No more? How many an age have bosoms beat
In holy transport, whilst assembled here
These courts the pious trod—to saints and martyrs dear!
O bathed in purest Heaven, as if the pledge
Of grace to man! empyreal dome, thy base
Pillar'd above the clouds!—shall sacrilege
Break up the pavement of thy holy place,
Thy sculptured thrones, thy pictured saints deface,
And from thy sick lamps dash the hallow'd oil—
Snatch from thy fretted altars, snatch the vase,
And with the phrenetic Omar's rites defile
The sanctuary of God, where rests the Virgin's smile?
Of grace to man! empyreal dome, thy base
Pillar'd above the clouds!—shall sacrilege
Break up the pavement of thy holy place,
Thy sculptured thrones, thy pictured saints deface,
And from thy sick lamps dash the hallow'd oil—
Snatch from thy fretted altars, snatch the vase,
And with the phrenetic Omar's rites defile
The sanctuary of God, where rests the Virgin's smile?
Hear, hear the Bosphorus all its echoes rouse!
For thee sweats Afric 'midst her swarthy toil;
And to thy marble-grandeur Asia bows.
Thy starry porphyry sparkled down the Nile:
And to support thy venerable pile
Laconia triumphs in her emerald stores.
Lo! stretch'd beyond the ken thine awful aisle,
Thy hundred columns, and thy jasper floors,
And lifted up on high thy everlasting doors!
For thee sweats Afric 'midst her swarthy toil;
And to thy marble-grandeur Asia bows.
Thy starry porphyry sparkled down the Nile:
And to support thy venerable pile
Laconia triumphs in her emerald stores.
Lo! stretch'd beyond the ken thine awful aisle,
Thy hundred columns, and thy jasper floors,
And lifted up on high thy everlasting doors!
Ah! now their gilding and their colours lost,
Scarce were the columns visible, all black
In night—all—save a pillar that was cross'd
By the cold moonbeam. 'Twas a mournful streak:
On the nave-floor it slumbered like a flake
Of snow. Upon the chancel-balustrade
There was a planet's glow-worm lustre weak;
And from a solitary taper, ray'd
A ray too faint to pierce the vast cathedral shade.
Scarce were the columns visible, all black
In night—all—save a pillar that was cross'd
By the cold moonbeam. 'Twas a mournful streak:
On the nave-floor it slumbered like a flake
Of snow. Upon the chancel-balustrade
There was a planet's glow-worm lustre weak;
And from a solitary taper, ray'd
A ray too faint to pierce the vast cathedral shade.
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To suit that moment's humble mood, was dim
And hush'd the temple-scene. The fiery bronze
Erst kindled on each column! Loud the hymn
Did from a thousand voices swell at once
Its raptures, and a thousand gems ensconce
The burning brilliance! Now to every tread
Is mutter'd a scarce audible response;
And a sepulchral gleaminess is shed
O'er every form and face through shadows dusky-red.
And hush'd the temple-scene. The fiery bronze
Erst kindled on each column! Loud the hymn
Did from a thousand voices swell at once
Its raptures, and a thousand gems ensconce
The burning brilliance! Now to every tread
Is mutter'd a scarce audible response;
And a sepulchral gleaminess is shed
O'er every form and face through shadows dusky-red.
To the lone taper beam'd an altar-vase;—
All else in pallid indistinctness gloom'd
To the strain'd eye interminable space:
What whilom was through all its length illum'd,
A line of lessening columns was entomb'd
In masses dense and shapeless. Not alone
In faith (though to a few weak followers doom'd)
Did Constantine his prayers to God make known:
A tear he could not check—it glisten'd, and was gone.
All else in pallid indistinctness gloom'd
To the strain'd eye interminable space:
What whilom was through all its length illum'd,
A line of lessening columns was entomb'd
In masses dense and shapeless. Not alone
In faith (though to a few weak followers doom'd)
Did Constantine his prayers to God make known:
A tear he could not check—it glisten'd, and was gone.
Is there a sight among the sons of men—
A spectacle to move a holier sigh,
Than human greatness midst the trying scene
Of sorrow, at thy footstool, O Most High—
Prostrate before the eternal Majesty?
Perchance archangels might have joy'd to hail
A prince, the first beneath heaven's canopy
Humbled before his God—a reptile frail—
Covering with sackcloth coarse the soldier's polish'd mail.
A spectacle to move a holier sigh,
Than human greatness midst the trying scene
Of sorrow, at thy footstool, O Most High—
Prostrate before the eternal Majesty?
Perchance archangels might have joy'd to hail
A prince, the first beneath heaven's canopy
Humbled before his God—a reptile frail—
Covering with sackcloth coarse the soldier's polish'd mail.
“O thou, in whom the spirits of the just
Rejoice! O pardon me, Almighty Lord,
Whose buckler shields me—in whose strength I trust!
If I had injured, or in deed or word,
The lowliest fed with crumbs beneath my board,
I ask'd forgiveness! Lo, thy blessed Son
In his dread chalice have my lips adored!
And if my race of life, if I have run—
If quiver my last sand—O God! thy will be done!
Rejoice! O pardon me, Almighty Lord,
Whose buckler shields me—in whose strength I trust!
If I had injured, or in deed or word,
The lowliest fed with crumbs beneath my board,
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In his dread chalice have my lips adored!
And if my race of life, if I have run—
If quiver my last sand—O God! thy will be done!
“But to my suffering children—though bereft
Of earthly sire, a Father mayst thou be!
Have mercy on the remnant that is left!
And though to other cities—though they flee,
Or wander midst the islands of the sea,
The cruel enemy, the avenger still!
Yet, if thy judgments here fall heavily,
Thy law if famine or the sword fulfil,
Silent, I dare not search the mysteries of thy will!”
Of earthly sire, a Father mayst thou be!
Have mercy on the remnant that is left!
And though to other cities—though they flee,
Or wander midst the islands of the sea,
The cruel enemy, the avenger still!
Yet, if thy judgments here fall heavily,
Thy law if famine or the sword fulfil,
Silent, I dare not search the mysteries of thy will!”
“And thou!” (the archpriest cried) “whose constant love
For ages hath commission'd seraphim
And cherubim descending from above,
To guard thy church from robbers that blaspheme
(Scaled in their dragon-scales) thy holy name;
Who, in thy city, for a thousand years,
Hast bid thy frankincense of mercy flame
To patriarchs and to saints, O hear our prayers,
And listen to our plaints, and look upon our tears!
For ages hath commission'd seraphim
And cherubim descending from above,
To guard thy church from robbers that blaspheme
(Scaled in their dragon-scales) thy holy name;
Who, in thy city, for a thousand years,
Hast bid thy frankincense of mercy flame
To patriarchs and to saints, O hear our prayers,
And listen to our plaints, and look upon our tears!
“Hear from thy blessed altar, Lord of Hosts!
Hear from the courts so oft these feet have trod,
Thine imprecating enemy that boasts
A language to defy ‘the living God;’
That ruthless devastation spreads abroad,
Polluting each hoar fabric ere it fall—
Now thirsting to profane this pure abode!
Accept my vows—regard thy suppliant's call,
Thou, thou, the Great Supreme, who reignest over all.
Hear from the courts so oft these feet have trod,
Thine imprecating enemy that boasts
A language to defy ‘the living God;’
That ruthless devastation spreads abroad,
Polluting each hoar fabric ere it fall—
Now thirsting to profane this pure abode!
Accept my vows—regard thy suppliant's call,
Thou, thou, the Great Supreme, who reignest over all.
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“E'en as the chaff before the wind, thine ire
Shall scatter them—the foes that circumvent
Thy race,—like stubble to consuming fire:
Root up their standard; smite the Moslem-tent,
And rend it, as a vesture that is rent!
So, whilst our trust is in the King of kings,
Thy banners shall we hail our battlement:
So, as thy favour sure salvation brings,
Shall peace repose beneath the shadow of thy wings.”
Shall scatter them—the foes that circumvent
Thy race,—like stubble to consuming fire:
Root up their standard; smite the Moslem-tent,
And rend it, as a vesture that is rent!
So, whilst our trust is in the King of kings,
Thy banners shall we hail our battlement:
So, as thy favour sure salvation brings,
Shall peace repose beneath the shadow of thy wings.”
Scarce had the Patriarch ceased, when from beneath,
A sound as of the wretched seem'd to come,
'Twas like the gnashing of a captive's teeth:
And the tall taper, like the blue simoom,
Wax'd pale, enough to seal Byzantium's doom!
Signs that, inspiring superstitious fear,
Flung o'er credulity a lurid gloom,
Sent e'en the valiant to the boding seer,
Enfeebled many an arm, and blunted many a spear.
A sound as of the wretched seem'd to come,
'Twas like the gnashing of a captive's teeth:
And the tall taper, like the blue simoom,
Wax'd pale, enough to seal Byzantium's doom!
Signs that, inspiring superstitious fear,
Flung o'er credulity a lurid gloom,
Sent e'en the valiant to the boding seer,
Enfeebled many an arm, and blunted many a spear.
| Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | |