 | The siege of Constantinople. A Poem |  |
Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes
Moving to mortal conflict, rung around;
The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield,
War-cries and tumults, strife and hate, and rage,
Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony,
Rout and pursuit, and death; and over all
The shout of victory.
Southey.
THE SIEGE OF Constantinople.
PREFACE.
WHEN an author first appears before the public in the walks of literature, and claims the favourable attention of his readers, he possesses not that talisman, the magic of a name, which often is sufficient to dazzle the eye of the mind with beauties, and blind it to the imperfections of the production. The beginning has proved the end of many an effort, which, if fostered, might have led to honour and to fame. This has been the grand obstacle to the flights of American genius; and was an insurmountable bar, till the authors of the Sketch-Book, Yamoyden, Ontwa, and others, by melodious and graceful prose, and strains which flowed with the ease and tenderness of the Mantuan bard, seized upon the mind, and engaged the fancy of those, who had learnt from the critics of a trans-atlantic isle, that dulness and Bæotian stupidity had transfered their residence to the sluggish minds of Americans.
The author of the following poem would not invite a comparison with the above-named productions nor would he send his own forth to the remarks of the world, without saying something of the execution.
The fall of Constantinople was one of the most important events, both in its immediate, and distant, consequences, which affected the safety and welfare of Christendom in the fifteenth century. Though the attentive observer of events, without being gifted with prophesy, could not but foretell the dissolution of the
After the lapse of almost four centuries, the terrible scenes of the siege, and still more awful consequences which followed it, cannot command that sympathetic feeling, which is immediately excited, when novelty awakens the mind, unwilling ever to look back, through the vista of ages, on preceding woes.
The author has, therefore, given indulgence to fancy, seized upon traditions, and yielded free scope to feeling and to passion, while at the same time the poem is grounded upon the faith of history. In truth, fancy causes the difference between history and poesy; for a mere versification of a known transaction recorded in history, would no more constitute a poem, than a marble image could be asserted to be a man. It is imagination soaring through creation, indulging in every object which delights the soul, or improves the heart; exhausting worlds and then commanding new; which gives a zest to the strains of the poet.
Granting this indulgence, the author has endeavoured to blend, as much as possible, the tender with the stern, the calm and humble with the impassionate and proud, the flush of victory with the resignation of its victims. The details of war and carnage are seldom agreeable to the public at any time; much less in a time of peace and general tranquility. And such minute circumstances as constitute the principal misery of war, and most poignantly affect the mind of the reader, are least of all acceptable in a poem, whose tendency is to relax, not invigorate—to please, not to excite impassioned feelings. The author hopes that the above observation will be found applicable to the production which is now submitted, with respect, to the impartial judgment of an indulgent public. And, if the scenes, which attended and succeeded the overthrow of the capital of the Roman Empire; the contrast of Christian and Ottoman manners; the effeminate luxury
Cultivation, ever necessary in every part of the literary course, is absolutely imperative to those who glow with fancy's fire; and, to produce cultivation, encouragement from the public is equally necessary.
Juvenum animi florent modo nati vigentque.But without this favour, none,
Meum respectet, ut ante, amorem,Qui illius culpa cecidit; velut prati
Ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam
Tactus aratro est.
Advertisement.
Constantinople, according to the best historians, fell under the arms of the Turks, led by Mahomed II. in the year 1453; when the power of the Roman Empire, of which the Constantinopolitan had for a long succession of ages, been only a shadow, became utterly extinct. Mr. Gibbon, although not minute in detailing the horrors of the siege, and the terrible events which followed it; yet says sufficient to enable us to conceive what Turkish obstinacy and brutality have, when incited by promises of plunder and paradise, invariably accomplished. Mahomed, by maintaining that “the sword was the key of heaven and of hell,” more probably of the latter, so poisoned the minds of his enthusiastic followers that, “in a word, lust, arrogance, covetousness, and the most exquisite hypocrisy, complete their character.”—
Maundrell.With men of this character, rendered almost frantic, by the temporal, and spiritual, rewards held out to them, the successor of the prophet overturned the last bulwark of her, who once was Empress of the World.
CANTO I.
I.
“HEROIC Romans once in pride arose,And wrought bold deeds, which will forever live;
They stood triumphant on the spoils of foes,
And Carthage vanquished did her ruins grieve.
But pleasure, mirth, and indolence, will give
Their torpid death-blow to all strength of mind;
“The primitive Romans,” says Mr. Gibbon, speaking of the degeneracy of the eastern soldiers, “would have drawn their swords in the resolution of death, or conquest. The primitive Christians might have embraced each other, and awaited in patience and charity the stroke of martyrdom. But the Greeks of Constantinople were devoid of that spirit which even women have sometimes exerted for the common safety.
“The Plebian crowd, and some Byzantine nobles, basely withdrew from the danger of their country; and the avarice of the rich denied the emperor, and reserved for the Turks, the secret treasures which might have raised whole armies of mercenaries.” Dr. Johnson thus beautifully touches upon this base, and shameful characteristic of a downward age;
The groaning Greeks dig up the golden caverns,The accumulated wealth of hoarding ages;
That wealth which granted to their weeping prince,
Had ranged embattled nations at their gates.
While restless factions for high places strive,
And, drove by treason, with base panic blind,
O'erthrow gray ages' walls—leave ashes' waste behind.
II.
“Sad and solitary the dome appears,Where once, thronged thousands did obedience yield;
E'en now, where yonder tower sublimely rears
Its time-worn turrets that o'erlook the field,
Methinks, I see plumed knights, in armour steeled,
Crowd on to kneel at their dread sovereign's feet,
To beg the boon, o'er foemen dire to wield
The gory sabre, and in death to meet,
Or, sweep the ocean with their warlike foaming fleet.
III.
“But ah! gay phantoms of an airy brain,That float, and pass, one moment to delude;
Unreal blessings, base parhelions vain!
No arm is reared, no crested warrior's stood
To oppose the Moslem's overwhelming flood.
But lost to virtue, sunk in supine fear,
The warm, and noble, and inspiring blood
Of Roman heroes, which did make them steer
Straight thro' the madd'ning strife, is all degen'rate here.
IV.
“The blood, which once the veins of Pompey warm'd,And, fired the courage of a Cæsar great,
Latium's proud vengeance, when the Vandals swarm'd,
Or, Roman Decius rushing on his fate;
Or, Brutus, rising with with a mien sedate,
When justice called, to yield a father's love
To public interest, and the weal of state;
No more afford a theme, where poets strove
To swell the sounding chords, and lift the notes above.
V.
“Rome's day of grandeur, and of pride has fled,Her glory shrouded, and her spoils unseen;
No field displays where recent warriors bled,
No living monument tells what has been;
Small is the band, which is to rush between
Mahomed's legions, and its country's doom;
Few noble hearts dilate to view the scene
Of such rash combat, 'mid the awful gloom
Which spreads its dreary veil o'er Latium's proudest bloom.
VI.
“Woe to the land, whose only hope and trustIs placed in one lone, feeble, hopeless band;
Whose sons' bright sabres in their scabbards rust,
Who live, a stigma, to that noble strand,
Where emp'rors oft did lead, and oft command.
No danger drives, no banner is unfurled,
To war there's none; but sons of Cæsar stand,
Nor list his voice, who thrones and kingdoms hurled,
Commanding them to guard the empress of the world.
VII.
“O cursed luxury! thy noisy hallOpes the smooth pathway to a nation's fate;
At thy enchantment haughty empires fall,
Whose long-lost splendour none can renovate;
When bursts thy spell, no pow'rs the soul dilate,
For degradation marks it for his prey;
Or, if a passion can the breast inflate,
Tis empty gasconade, a gewgaw play;
They haste their nation's doom, nor heed the awful fray.
VIII.
“Though treason reign, and naught but pleasure sway,Yet one's an army, driven by despair;
That soul, which glows not with a single ray
Of heaven-born hope, has not an anxious care
Of life, or death, like lion from his lair,
No force can conquer, and no pow'r o'erwhelm.
Grant, holy virgin, so sublimely fair,
Thine aid to foster this degraded realm,
But if Byzantium falls—to heaven direct the helm.”
IX.
Thus spake Constantine, Romans' remnant pride,The character which I have endeavoured throughout to sustain of the last of the Cæsars, is briefly, but vividly, drawn by the historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman empire. “The nation was indeed base and pusillanimous; but the last Constantine deserves the name of an hero; his noble band of volunteers was inspired with Roman virtue; and his foreign auxiliaries supported the honour of the western chivalry.”
“The distress, and fall of the last Constantine are more glorious than the long prosperity of the Byzantine Cæsars.”
At midnight hour, while o'er the city gleamed
The rampires' watch-light around panic wide;
Oft loud, and shrill, the bird of evil screamed
Her notes of terror; oft the sleeper dreamed
He lay 'midst fires, and carnage, blood and death;
And oft, the viewer of the heavens deemed
He saw red chariots, chargers out of breath,
Drive their swift course along the ærial heath.
X.
Wide o'er the welkin flames the battle-brand,Coruscant flashes mix with purple gore;—
Commanding warriors all sublimely stand,
And fire the combat; while all the heav'ns o'er
Resounds the charge; the death-fraught cannon pour
Their fatal contents with redoubled ire;—
Pure angels weep, and hang above the roar
Of arms;—infernal, laughing fiends inspire
The strife, where heaped on heaps, whole thousand ranks expire.
XI.
But only few, whose hearts were firmly rivenUnto their country's fate, the omens viewed;
For all the rest by wine to slumber driven,
Nor saw the airy field of battle strewed
With dead, and dying, welt'ring in their blood;
Nor sought to mingle in the final feud,
Which was to burst earth's dearest mortal ties,
Tear all asunder, with a vengeance rude,
And, 'mid ten thousand shrill resounding cries,
Blot proud Byzantium's name, from power beneath the skies.
XII.
They slept profound, within a living tomb,Lost to all sense but that of low delight;
No more to them, proud waves the hero's plume,
No more they glory in the rapid fight.
The morning lamp emits a feeble light,
But Roman splendour unto them was shame,
And Rome's broad noon-day, never-ending night;
Their minds no more revered the mighty name
Of Cincinnatus heir to ever-living fame.
XIII.
Now rushing on toward their noble chief,The last sad remnant of Byzantine pow'r,
Advances bold to lend its aid, relief,
To him, who mused within the mouldering tow'r,
Round which the wild bat winged his nightly hour.
The empty halls resounded back the tread
Of those brave few, who met the flaming show'r
Of fire and arrows, with destruction red;
Re-echoing steps resound, like voices from the dead.
XIV.
All the great deeds, achieved by warriors gone,These self-devoted patriots, who ascend
To more than mortal height; and, yet anon
The lowly tillage with their station blend;
The bold dictator, and the common friend;
Rush through the minds of those, who view the verge
Of Roman glory, and, who nobly bend
Their heaven-doomed course to where high honours urge,
As the wave-tossed, fragile, bark still braves the foaming surge.
XV.
The open doors disclose the wakeful king.Silent as death, loud rings the dreary dome;
That dome, where oft was paid the offering
Of chiefs, who shone, when prospered mighty Rome;
Of kings, who far from mighty kingdoms come,
To yield their tribute of respect and love;
Ah! once, the pride of heroes, and the home
Of warriors faithful, who with danger strove,
With dauntless courage, such as high born souls approve.
XVI.
“Hail, worthy sovereign! to thy nervous handWe yield our all in this dread state malign,
For barbarous foemen wield the awful brand
Of deadly warfare; if a hope benign
Can rest on us, to thee we all resign
Our lives, our hopes, our treasures, and our all”—
Thus spake brave Phranza;
Phranza was prime minister and protovestiare of the eastern court; a man, in whom glowed the native fire of Roman heroism, and, who was the pride and ornament of his falling country. The pathetic scene of the palace, here described, is thus drawn with great pathos, by Mr. Gibbon.
“The last speech of Palæologos was the funeral oration of the Roman empire; he promised, he conjured, and he vainly attempted to infuse the hope which was extinguished in his own mind. In this world all was comfortless and gloomy; but the example of their prince, and the confinement of a siege, had armed these warriors with the courage of despair; and the pathetic scene is described by the feelings of the historian Phranza, who was himself a most conspicuous member of this mournful assembly. They wept, they embraced; regardless of their families and fortunes, they devoted their lives; and each commander, departing to his station, maintained all night a vigilant and anxious watch on the rampart.”
Pealed the shrill echo; in the cause, to fall
Of lost Byzantium, was to them a festival
XVII.
Constantine's cheek assumed a kindling glowOf momentary hope—“welcome, ye race
Of Rome's primeval heroes in her wo;
Those warriors first in every martial grace,
Who held before their kings a living mace,
To guard, exalt, to magnify, adorn;
Latium displayed not one appalling trace
Of where stern Goths despoiled;—a fate forlorn,
Awoke in awful wrath, and made their hordes to mourn.
XVIII.
“'Tis from within the brave man courage draws,'Tis virtue wakens when base treasons reign;
And yet, methinks, amid the world's applause,
Some Belisarius
Belisarius, an hero worthy of a crown, and who, like Timon and other Grecian worthies, was left to obscurity; his laurels being exposed to the blasting breath of calumny. Well might the immortal Scipio exclaim, and the words have been echoed by many a plaintive tongue:
Ingrata patria, non possidebis ossa mea!Which once pealed length'ning o'er Ausonia's plain;
Heaven grant that when the lonely trumpets wail,
And Rome's loud war-cry echoes once again,
Byzantium's thousands may arise, and hail
Their ancient armour, and their dart-repelling mail.
XIX.
“But if her doom is fixed—her die is cast—What then;”—“we sleep beneath the smould'ring fires
Of her proud ruins, when the flood is past;”
Cried the brave band, who wore the hearts their sires
Put on at Zama;—vengeance still inspires
Their glowing breasts—“by all that life endears—
By every scene, that prompts the loved desires—
By every tale which draws the piteous tears;
When time shall seal her doom—there pause our flowing years.”
XX.
There with an eye, which flashed with battle's ire,A sword, that few, beside himself, could wield,
Which flames with wrath, where'er his thoughts aspire,
In dread array, all in black armour steeled,
The gen'rous Genoese
John Justiniani, an Italian noble, was the commander of the auxiliaries; and he well supported the honours which had been paid him, till he sullied them after he was wounded in the eye; “the exquisite pain of which,” says the historian, “appalled the courage of a chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest rampart of the city.”
In strength, and might, like to the sturdy oak,
Whose roots, struck deep, will not permit to yield;
But, spreads his arms, defies the whirlwind's stroke,
And stands collected, firm, commanding, and unbroke.
XXI.
Each to his station on the rampart's height,Sped his bold course, to wait the rising day;
And through the shades of earth-obscuring night,
Rung the dire watch-word, “death, or victory;”
Dim o'er the battlements, the glimmering ray
Of waning lights foretold the morn of blood,
Slow rising from the eastern skies of grey,
And wavy clouds, that seemed a crimson flood;
And, frowning in their wrath, the dreadful bulwarks stood.
XXII.
Far other arms in Turkish camps are seen,Far other voices strike the ear of night;
The busy hum, the thoughtless, careless, mien
Of confidence, and revelling delight;
Such as will crown the bold victorious knight,
Such as their prophet, in indulgent love,
Confers on warriors,
“A drop of blood shed in the cause of God,” (in the cause of Moloch, within the groves of Baal-Peor,) “one night spent in arms, is of more avail than two months of fasting and prayer; whoever falls in battle, his sins are forgiven; at the day of judgment his wounds shall be as resplendent as vermilion and odoriferous as musk; and the loss of his limbs shall be supplied with the wings of angels and cherubim.” Such is one of the blasphemous promises of Islamism. The rewards, universally, of toilsome warfare, are the verdant shades of paradise with the black-eyed virgins, if they fall; and if they survive, the promiscuous defloration of their unhappy female captives.
To bear to heav'n, make elysium prove
One vast, black charnel-house, which taints the air above.
XXIII.
The scene is changed—far flames the signal gun—Rude armour rings, and helmet's twisted mail;
Raised javelins glitter in the morning sun,
And shrill-toned trumpets in far distance wail;
The Moslems waken from their low wassail,
The Paynim turbans fit each glowing brow;
And, ranged in order they their sultan hail,
Where throned beneath the crescent's purple glow,
The Miramolin sate, with fixed, unaltered, vow.
XXIV.
Around him pachas, emirs, cadi throng,Far to his right, as gleamed the western moon,
A motley host, of diff'rent clime and tongue,
Like the strange skies, which show the dire monsoon,
Lengthen their ranks in solemn order; soon
The Turkish left prolongs before its lord;
O'er whose proud head the roof of gay saloon
Reared its high arches;—at the soldan's word,
Thus swept the dervise-bard his warlike sounding chord.
I.
Nature pauses, still with dread,As when the whirlwind is confined;
But morrow's sun will tell the dead,
Of those who feast on human kind.
II.
The hurricane is o'er the main,And bursts with vengeance on the foe;
Resounding, list the baleful strain
Wailing from the height below.
III.
Yon crimson banner flouts the air,Beneath it Moslems choose to die;
To foes, the ensign of despair,
Here, the badge of victory.
IV.
On your sultan's waving plume,Immortal glory's eagles rest,
Glory sheds a brighter bloom,
Around the mansions of the blest.
V.
Beneath your arms have empires fell,Beneath your frown have monarchs bowed;
Swept by your might, as by a spell,
Nations have found the flame their shroud.
VI.
Hark to the torrent, from the brow,Of yonder cliff-top'd, rising hill—
Wide it thunders down below—
Appalling horrors mortals fill.
VII.
On its whelming flood are borneTrees, and rocks, with dreadful sweep,
Impeding objects all are torn,
And hurried to the briny deep.
VIII.
So mighty Paynim hosts shall rise,With vengeance on their frowning mien,
And, as the thunder rends the skies,
Drive their course in vict'ry's sheen.
IX.
Awake, to deeds of deathless fame—Snatch the proud garland of delight—
When peals your sultan's awful name,
Reap your rich harvest in the fight.
X.
Glory fires the maddening soul,Beauty blooms for vict'ry's son—
Now elysium is begun.
XI.
Day awakes—awake, ye hosts—Scale Byzantium—please your bard—
For every clime with ardour boasts
The Romans' doom is our reward.
XXV.
Some fear of despot's wrath, some honours urgeTo fill the chasm
“The Turks, pushing their approaches to the edge of the ditch,” which surrounded the walls of the city, “attempted to fill the enormous chasm, and build a road to the assault.
“Innumerable fascines, and hogsheads, and trunks of trees, were heaped on each other; and such was the impetuosity of the throng, that the foremost and weakest were pushed headlong down the precipice, and instantly buried under the accumulated mass.”
Gibbon, vol. 12, p. 212.And rolling onward, like the heaving surge,
The mass compact around the cavern swarm;
Trees, rocks, and rubbish, bodies deeply warm
All rush promiscuous to the dark abyss;—
Despair's last yell—and shrieking horror's arm
Extended high, where fiery serpents hiss,
Show man's reluctance to enjoy Mahomed's bliss.
XXVI.
Down rolls the throng to awful depths below,O'er whom shafts, stones, and shattered rocks were dash'd,
The living never the dread period know,
When they shall shrink from their vile grave abash'd;
Earth heaps upon them—rolling fragments crash'd
On others, when they struck a passing fire,
Which only serv'd to show where elops gnash'd
Their pois'nous teeth, darting their tongues in ire—
Till swollen to the full, war's victims loud expire.
XXVII.
Alas! the horrors dire which writhe the hearts,The drear vulcanian gloom of caverns deep,
Where dreaming thousands from the visions start
Of heav'nly bliss;—ah! still fresh armies sweep
New victims down the blood-enshrouded steep;
They lift their cry—'tis o'er—in slimy graves
Their mangled bodies low for ever sleep;
Mahomed orders—and in vain he raves,
For “Allah, Allah, gives, our heav'n born prophet saves.”
XXVIII.
Silent as midnight, from the op'ning gate,Whose hinges grate not one alarming sound,
In armour steeled and with deadly hate;
As the calm air breathes silence all around
Before the earthquake shakes the solid ground;
So rush the heroes from Byzantium —far
O'er Rome's false image one drear sleep profound
Shuts ev'ry eye;—the bright rising star
To vengeance guides them, and exterminating war.
XXIX.
Amaz'd they stood, and viewed the rash design,Heard the loud yells and unavailing cries;
To toil till death was their command divine,
The noble guerdon mansions in the skies.
The blood did chill at woes before the eyes,
The groans and dreadful agonies of those,
The Turk, and Persian clad in gorgeous dies,
Who fall and rise no more; though bitter foes,
The christian heart relents, and feels compassion's throes.
XXX.
They paused not long—the fatal arrows fly—And Moslems fall—o'er dying, and the dead
The rapid war-horse flies—on rampires high
The shades of Roman heroes from their bed
Of death and darkness, fire the combat red;
Unseen they slay—unknowing writhe in death,
They curse their prophet, when the wounds, that bled,
Cease their swift flow; yea, with their dying breath;
And, tumbling, fill the trench, or slumber on the heath.
XXXI.
But oh! Mahomed in terrific wrathWith flambeau blazing o'er the smoking flood,
And sabre flaming o'er his dusky path,
Encircled with a most ferocious brood
Of warriors feasting in warm human blood
Fired the dull spirits of his motley host,
And carnage glowed where the Grand Seignior stood;
But the loud crash of brazen hinges crost
His darling heart's desire—he sought his former post.
XXXII.
Where towers the cross, within Byzantium's walls,Dire schism, uproar, mad confusion dwell;
Religious frenzy, or, ambition calls,
And thousands crowd around the sacred cell
Of saint Gennadius,
Like the ancient Jews, the degenerate descendants of a race of heroes, and pious martyrs, had become most madly bigotted, and so tenacious of an imaginem vanam priscæ gloriæ, that they accounted it the last degree of degradation, to behold in St. Sophia an Italian priest; and thought the venerable dome polluted by the appearance of a cardinal's hat, the sure harbinger of the pope's tiara. To decide irrevocably this point, they rushed by thousands to the cell of the prophet, who, according to Gibbon, joined with the indignant mob, instead, as was his duty, endeavouring to allay, the ferment, and assuage the heat of that most dreadful of all evils, religious animosity. I have abated somewhat of the rigour of the monk, and added something to the feelings of the patriot.
I feel myself justified, in this instance, in a departure from the strictness of the text; although, a general coincidence is the most proper and pleasing course.
When falls their empire, or when rears again;
Around the prophet hung the awful spell
Of mystery shrouding a full heart of pain.
Thus, mid the lamp's dull glow, was heard the dreadful strain.
XXXIII.
“Apostate progeny of Roman worth,Luxurious profligates, beware the hour
When stinging scorpions haunt your hearth,
Your festive halls!—Ah! awful death shall low'r,
And vengeance paralyze your boasted pow'r.
Apostates from your God, this evil day
Shall witness horrors in a copious show'r;
There is but one exalted, glorious ray
Of suns, that glow'd whilome, and that will pass away.”
XXXIV.
Another scene succeeds—a strain of mirth,Of jollity and song rings through the sky;
Here low-born pleasure has its blasting birth,
Stamped with a stigma by stern destiny;
The voice of music, beauty's glancing eye,
The strain of triumph, and the glowing bowl
Mix with the distant yell and battle-cry,
Which not all Byzantium's gloom can e'en controul;
And thus in mirthful mood the lyre afflicts the soul.
I.
Come on sons of Bacchus, let the goblet fly round,O fill up the space that is left in your mind,
With the fumes of red wine and Calypso's sweet sound,
Which wo will dispel, and leave pleasure behind.
II.
Fie! talk not of havoc, our indulgence to mar,Nor think of the foemen, who for vengeance lie wait;
Nor the terrors of armies, nor the horrors of war,
For turban or crown we will not be sedate.
III.
'Tis Venus inspires us, joined with Semile's son,Let Mars spread destruction, bathe his car deep in blood;
We will show a sweet victory and far dearer won—
The conquest of man, in the enjoyment of good.
IV.
Old fool-hardy Romans once thought it was brave,To wade up to empire in the blood of the slain;
That glory immortal enshrouded their grave,
And the harps of all bards were strung for the strain.
V.
But their offspring more wise, have forgotten the dead,Who slumber in ocean, or bleach on the shore;
May their deeds be forgotten, where'er they have spread
And their memories rot, be remembered no more.
VI.
Then replenish the bumper, and give it free sway,We were born sons of mirth, and wine be our song;
Whether Paynim or Christian we have to obey,
Our gold sure will save us, O that antidote strong.
VII.
In luxury's lap, with rich beauty our bride,We will gladden the days of tranquility, love,
For wine is our servant, and woman our pride,
As Bacchus and Venus to omnipotent Jove.
VIII.
Advance to the cup then, sure we'll have our glee,Through havoc and carnage, through safety or feud;
The glass is the deep bark, and red wine the wide sea,
Upon this let's embark, and welcome the flood.
XXXV.
From Saint Sophia's broad, and holy domeA diff'rent voice resounds the final pray'r;
Lo! on his knees, the last that mighty Rome
Could boast of heroes, with collected air,
Sends forth his orizon, heaven his care;
His purple robe was pendent down his side,
His golden eagles shone, and from his hair
A dewy moisture rose;—to Him who died
Was high preferred the voice of emp'ror once in pride.
XXXVI.
A single taper gleamed its feeble ray—A single warrior heard his orizon—
A single pen inscribed for future day
The deeds by Rome's last desp'rate hero done
High angels listened—one dread voice alone
Broke through the horrors of the death-like gloom
And, as it sounded high, a stifled groan
Burst from brave Phranza; for the awful doom
Of Rome's exalted state was graven on her tomb.
XXXVII.
Lo! from the recess see a robe of whiteShroud the pale visage of an hoary priest;
On th' altar's spread the emblems of a rite
Divine, established for an holy feast,
A glad memorial of a world releas'd
From sin by pardon, on repentance deep.
He bowed his head towards the dim-red east,
And for Constantine's doom did sadly weep;
For dismal hordes of fiends prepared to fiercely sweep.
XXXVIII.
Constantine tasted—rose for good, or ill—Calm as the morn, whose evening thunders rend;
A torrent pausing on a towering hill,
Before all works unto its fierceness bend;
All pondered schemes in one supremely blend,
To stand the shock, and die as Romans died.
Aurora fades—her morning glories end,
And gleam of Moslem arms, a fiery tide,
Flames o'er the battlements of courage unbelied.
Miramolin; a title, quasi soldan, sive sultan: the Arabian salutation as Emir-Almoumini; the Emperor of the Faithful.
CANTO II.
I.
Dæmon of War! what scenes of deathless wo,And shuddering dread, have marked thy crimson track!
The aching sense recoils from ev'ry blow
Thou dost inflict, with horror at thy back;
The slumb'ring waste, the limb-disjointing rack,
The plundered temples, and the virgin's groan,
The bursting heart, and devastation black,
The sigh, the shriek, the yell, are all thy own;—
All mark thy progress dire from south to frigid zone.
II.
Thy hydra visage, picture of despair,Is reared on high, and mankind shrink aghast;
Thy gaudy banners flout the rushing air,
Nations are swept before thy rending blast;
Standing triumphant on the des'late waste,
Thy fiend-like visage mocks a bitter smile;
Such as might glow, when in the sulph'rous vast,
Dire Pluto views his new-made victims toil;
When not a ray of hope can his abode beguile.
III.
'Mid cannon's thunder and the javelin's shaft,No shield is held to stay thy dire career,
For, borne upon thy fiery, blood-drench'd raft,
All is ingulph'd, and all that's held most dear;
Beneath the purple, or the frock, thy spear
Can pierce the heart of peasant or of lord;
Thy gory tresses, and stern eye appear
In terror wild; at thy commanding word
Earth's fragile thrones are hurled—is dy'd the barb'rous sword.
IV.
The gilded sun, from eastern skies of red,Rises to light the foeman to his prey;
Wide o'er Marmora's deep and watery bed
Is cast his dawning and enliv'ning ray;
Soft murm'ring breezes on the waters play,
Nature is decked in many a varied hue,
But ne'er the sun was wuch an awful day,
And ne'er again will such dread tumult view,
For mountains shook with dread, and madd'ning dæmons flew.
V.
Loud peal the trumpets, drums, and attaballs—Broad waves the crescent to the breeze of morn,
Two shouts dissonant from the land and walls
Through the vast concave on the gale are borne;
On high the cross, the glory and the scorn
Of raging foemen, rears its lofty sign;
And from the shrine, which madness doth adorn,
Mahomed rose to range the feast divine,
Which Hera's sage prepares round Orcus' dreary shrine.
Mahomed, the pseudo-prophet of the cave of Hera, is described by all historians, as of a pale livid complexion, and trux aspectus et vox terribilis. And, by his long seclusion from society, and pretended struggles with the assailing enemy of his faith, he had become so emaciated, as in reality to strongly resemble the “ghost-like aspect,” so finely spoken of by Camoens, in the 8th book of the Lusiad.
VI.
High on the rampires stand the vig'lant band,Whose hearts are mighty, though their force is weak,
Who tow'r the guardians of the sacred strand,
Where heroes whilome trode;—they bravely wreak
Dire vengeance on the foe, and widely streak
The hoary towers with their seigers' gore;—
Assailed by foes whose dread furious freak
Is destiny itself—from walls, sea, shore,
Destructive cannon swift their mortal death-shot pour.
It may, perhaps, be thought an anachronism has been committed here. But, by reference to history it will be found that the unfortunate discovery of gunpowder took place sometime previous to the date of the fall of the capital of the East.
Mahomed, at this siege, had one cannon, to the bore of which twelve palms have been assigned; and it carried a ball of six hundred pounds weight. The enormous engine being drawn by sixty yoke of oxen. And this tremendous piece of artillery, “was flanked by two fellows almost of equal magnitude.” “The long order of Turkish artillery was pointed against the walls; and fourteen batteries thundered at once on the most accessible places.” “A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople, is the re-union of ancient and modern artillery. The cannon were intermingled with the mechanical engines for casting stones and darts; the bullet and the battering-ram were directed against the same walls; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superceded the use of the liquid and unextinguishable fire.”
VII.
What dire confusion, and what disarrayDrove thousand Moslems to their fiery doom!
For, though the soldan, through the scattered fray
Rushed, while his voice pealed loudly 'mid the gloom,
Command was lost; and Roman fires illume
The purple field of slaughter and of death.
But though whole thousands bleach'd without a tomb,
And, blood drench'd earth was warriors only wreath,
Fresh myriads storm the walls, in most terrific wrath.
VIII.
Dread answering blasts with scorching fury fall,And hosts of darts assail the maniac throng,
Who rush on frantic to the battered wall,
And meet with vengeance from an hero strong,
Who scatters havoc all the host among;—
Helmets, and targets echo wide the clang
Of balls and darts—afar the battle-song
Mingling with groans through all the concave rang,
And wavering rampires back unto their centre sprang.
IX.
A dim white speck on the horizon wideNow meets the observer's sharp and anxious eye,
Ploughing the main, and borne upon its tide,
The succouring squadron towers on high;
Ten thousand viewers now the sail espy,
Myriads of hearts beat anxious for the strife—
Th' imperial flag seems waving on the sky,
Beneath it warriors for the contest rife,
Who now unsheath their blades, and shake the boarding knife.
X.
With shouts they come—each warlike deck is clearedFor deadly strife—their cheering loud huzza
Is answered by ten thousand—they appeared
Victims devoted to their cause;—the way
Still foams beneath the ships in grand array.
The sultan urges—beys unmoor their fleet
Which runs in mad confusion; for dismay
Had turned their giddy brain—they fear to meet
The Italian squadron for dire flames their presence greet.
XI.
The loud shrill trumpets wake the cannon's roar,And through the smoke the vivid lightnings flare;
The corse-filled billow rushes to the shore;
Beneath the arrowy show'r, and awful glare
Of inextinguishable fire, the air
Turns to a lenghtening sea of dark-red flame;
The Paynim host, in deep and dread despair,
Pour thousand curses on their prophet's name,
Whom frantic madness led to everlasting fame.
XII.
Disaster, ruin, blacken o'er the deep,And scattered wrecks far spread the liquid fires;
The boiling surges o'er the squadron sweep—
No source is left, but what despair inspires;
While oft and loud from dire ambition's pyres
The shrieking yell, through the red closing surge,
Swells o'er the wave unheard; the dear desires
Of dread Mahomed, on their foremost verge
Are blasted, lost—and dreadful horrors fiercely urge.
XIII.
O'er the dread scene the southern war-ships rideTriumphant, nodding to the Christian crest,
The naval action described in this, and the four preceding stanzas, is thus drawn by Mr. Gibbon.
“One of the ships,” namely, of the fleet sent from the harbour of Chios, “bore the Imperial flag; the remaining four belonged to the Genoese; and they were laden with wheat and barley, with wine, oil, and vegetables, and, above all, with soldiers and mariners, for the service of the capital. After a tedious delay, a gentle breeze, and, on the second day, a strong gale from the south, carried them through the Hellespont and Propontis; but the city was already invested by sea and land; and the Turkish fleet, at the entrance of the Bosphorus, was stretched from shore to shore, in the form of a crescent, to intercept, or at least repel, these bold auxiliaries.
“The reader who has present to his mind the geographical picture of Constantinople, will conceive and admire the greatness of the spectacle. The joyful shouts, and full press, both of sails and oars, against an hostile fleet of three hundred vessels; and the rampart, the camp, the coasts of Europe and Asia, were lined with innumerable spectators, who anxiously awaited the event of this momentous succour. At the first view that event could not appear doubtful; the superiority of the Moslems was beyond all measure or account; and, in a calm, their numbers and valour must inevitably have prevailed. But their hasty and imperfect navy, had been created, not by the genius of the people, but by the will of the Sultan; in the height of their prosperity, the Turks have acknowledged, that if God had given them the earth, he had left the sea to the infidels; and, since courage arises in a great measure from the consciousness of strength, the bravest of the Janizaries might tremble on a new element. In the Christian squadron, five stout and lofty ships were guided by skilful pilots, and manned by the veterans of Italy and Greece, long practised in the arts and perils of the sea. Their weight was directed to sink or scatter the weak obstacles that impeded their passage; their artillery swept the waters; their liquid fire was poured on the heads of the adversaries, who with the design of boarding, presumed to approach them; and the winds and waves were always on the side of the ablest navigators. In this conflict, the imperial vessel, which had been almost overpowered, was rescued by the Genoese; but the Turks, in a distant and closer attack, were twice repulsed with considerable loss. The reproaches of Mahomed, and the clamour of the camp, urged the Ottomans to a third attack, more fatal and bloody than the two former, and Phranza says, that they lost about twelve thousand men in the slaughter of the day. They fled in disorder to the shores of Europe and Asia, while the Christian squadron, triumphant and unhurt, steered along the Bosphorus, and securely anchored within the chain of the harbour.” Syracuse, Lepanto, Trafalgar, and Aboukir never saw a more noble, and immortal action!
Their banners waving o'er the billowy tide,
Where Moslem thousands in their armour rest,
Their souls, (perhaps) ere now in heaven blest.
While far and wide the shattered masts and keels
Rear their sad ensigns o'er the scorched breast
Which, conquest's ardour, nor dishonour, feels.
Ah! happier those who sleep, than those whom vengeance steels.
XIV.
Mahomed sees his mighty labours lost,His navy sinks—he utters not a groan,
His soldiers perish—with another host
He speeds to vengeance—and to death alone;
He leaves the beach—and mounts his steed, anon
Through yielding ranks he flies and fires again;
Wide o'er the field resounds his thund'ring tone,
While round him arrows, dipp'd in deadly bane,
Cause streams of blood to flow and welter all the slain.
XV.
Deep shake the walls, which have for ages stood,And frowned their turrets on wide Asia's ire,
That foiled Chosroes, and his savage brood,
And clothed his legions in an awful fire;
Beneath, above, all in their sheeny gyre,
Stern warriors lift the steel-resisting shield,
And deal around them carnage, slaughter, dire;
The sword is gory, that the furies wield,
With look exulting, round the foes who scorn to yield.
XVI.
The three weird sisters through the combat red,With tresses coiling round the serpent's hide,
Draw, spin, and cut, the half-completed thread,
Woven in wrath, and, soon as woven, dy'd;
Behind them Fate, in lofty pomp and pride,
Sweeps chosen victims with a fearless hand;
And Mars triumphant, when the brave he spied,
Scorched them in death, with his wide-flaming brand,
And drove whole legions down, with moveless self-command.
XVII.
Where the fierce storms of death-shot fiercest low'r,Where death, most potent, slakes his raging thirst,
On the bold bastion—on the tumbling tow'r,
The Emp'ror stands;—around his station burst
The combat's thunders;—at his vengeful thrust
The frantic Moslems fall and die;—the while
His diamonds, glitt'ring through the cov'ring dust,
Display an arm, from which his foes recoil,
And point them out the place where is the warlike toil.
XVIII.
Close by his side the Italian hero stands,In flashing panoply of crimson war;
With sword, shield, musket, in his glowing hands,
Whose dread effects are felt around him far;
No toil, no danger, can his course debar
Through flaming combat's wrath and awful storm;
Descending, like the fiery meteor-star,
He drives his fatal way; around his form
Gather compatriots with love, and roaring battle warm.
XIX.
Rank falls on rank—they fill the putrid trench;O'er this red carneous bridge the Turks advance,
Mahomed leads them on—defenders drench
The assailing hosts with blood; each one his lance
Had ready couched for death; each time the glance
Of Moslems' foe was cast around the scene,
He saw new hosts had paid their rash penance;
Smoke clouds the sky—explosions scorch the green,
While hill, tower, church, and height are thronged with viewers mean.
XX.
Bombs burst with vengeance—arrows stream with blood,Or shattered shafts fly round—like bolts of heav'n
The wide stretched ordnance flamed a fiery flood,
Before whose torrent mortal power is driv'n;
Ballistæ batter, as if earth was riv'n
And all creation to its centre hurled;
Far shakes the o'erwhelming escalade; ev'n
Ocean's god arose, and o'er his watery world
Cast his wild view afar, for high his wave was whirl'd.
XXI.
Scarce through dense war-clouds, spiral, darkling dun,Can pierce the rays of high meridian light,
Or, frantic foes tell where to point the gun,
Or, where meet en'mies in the sallying fight,
They storm the breach, and raise the helmet bright
To give the final blow;—a giant hand
Cleaves the broad target, and to endless night
Sends the brave sieger and his savage band;—
Their steel-clad corses crashing as they strike the strand.
XXII.
As the proud vessel heaves her towering prowHigh on the swelling wave—now in the deep
With vengeful fury hurl'd; above, below,
The boiling surges lash—high on the steep
She hangs—below, a gulph—above, a heap
Of foaming billows roll thund'ring, and o'er
The wretched crew destruction fiercely sweep;
Till dashing billows, on the sounding shore
Spread a smooth level wide, the noble ship no more.
XXIII.
So thousand heroes braved the awful show'rOf fire, and death-shot;—fell from conquest's fame,
Their memory held scarce through a passing hour,
While they return to dust from whence they came,
And leave behind the magic of a name;
They serve the purpose of their humble birth,
To yield their freedom, and to give a claim
To low-born despots, for the pride of earth,
Which, like the Gallic Bey, they make the sport of mirth.
XXIV.
Romanus shakes—heaves—totters—crashes—falls;“By various arts of annoyance, some as new as they were fatal to the Greeks, the tower of St. Romanus was at length overturned; after a severe struggle, the Turks were repulsed from the breach and interrupted by darkness; but they trusted, that with the return of light they should renew the attack with fresh vigour and decisive success. Of this pause of action, this interval of hope, each moment was improved by the activity of the emperor and Justiniani, who passed the night on the spot, and urged the labours, which involved the safety of the church and city. At the dawn of day, the impatient Sultan perceived, with astonishment and grief, that his wooden turret had been reduced to ashes; the ditch was cleared and restored; and the tower of St. Romanus was again strong and entire.”—
Gibbon, vol. 12, p. 213–14.Besiegers rush—defenders fill the breach;
Storms the wide ocean flame—the blazing walls
Reflect to Chalcedon, and fire the beach;
The soldan, phrenzied, bares his arm to reach
His en'my bold—receding masses bear
Him, raging, down; while the shrill female screach
Is heard to mingle notes of dire despair—
Which, joined with armour's crash, assaults the groaning air.
XXV.
Spears, turbans, helmets, sabres, float in blood,The hardy mail-coat no dread rage restrains,
Pouring from wounds far spreads the reeking flood,
Sounds the loud death-knell uproar, havoc reigns;
The foe advancing shouts—o'er corse-strewn plains
Resounds the dying yell—the lofty plume
Is dy'd in blood—the loud commanding strains
Of adverse emp'rors, sound amid the gloom
When for a moment artillery close their womb.
XXVI.
Still cries the sultan, still is he obeyed,Fresh thousands meet with that avenging steel
Flaring, as bold Constantine lays the blade
With awful vengeance on the foes, who wheel
To turn their ranks too late; and sorely feel
That death is in the shock, and ev'ry blow
Which wide is wielded;—turning on his heel
The Paynim falls before the griffin foe,
Who, eagle-like, with lion's stroke, deals death below.
XXVII.
Firm in the breach the shining cross appears,And still the Romans stand the headlong shock;
Their reeking swords, and blood-stained steely spears
Repel the Moslems, as the steadfast rock
Laughs at the torrent's overwhelming stroke;
Around, the heads, and arms, of cruel foes
Still dire in death, infernal vengeance mock;
While reeling warriors to the contest rose,
As Adosinda brave from all her dreadful woes.
XXVIII.
The foe retires—Romanus towers on high—The cannon rend—it stands the fury fell;
The arrows shower—its standards flout the sky,
Brave soldiers fall—its walls the foe repel;
Who, like its chief, could fear and shame expel?
Or, who like him, should wake the sounding lyre,
His last bold exploits, and his deeds to tell?
Around his rampart, flames the battle's ire,
And roused to phrenzy's height, far spreads the quenchless fire.
XXIX.
The combat thickens—loud huzzas ascendThe list'ning skies—gigantic Hassan dares
All Christian prowess; high he mounts—they bend
The red couchant lance—the ruined rampart wears
Upon its height, the mortal foe, who spares
No rank that comes within his fiery sweep;
His gory sword in flames of cannon glares—
Steel clangs on steel—down the dark, gory steep
Pierced with an hundred wounds, he thunders to the deep.
XXX.
A thousand hearts beat ardent for the strife,A thousand Moslems mount the fatal height;
But Roman swords, that reeked with blood of life,
Now spread around a wild and pale affright,
And cannon vollies stretched a rolling night;
The yell of horror, and the far huzza,
The Christian valour, and the Turkish might
A dubious chance shed o'er the deepening fray,
For, darting through the smoke, far gleamed the waning day.
XXXI.
As baleful Mars, on Thracia's hills of yore,Sent desolation at his furious bound,
So mad Mahomed through the combat bore
Terrific slaughter—crimson death around;
He mounts the breach—his foemen kiss the ground,
And, thousand Othmans follow on his way;
Through skies and earth the dismal cries resound,
While crimson standards, rising o'er the fray,
Show cross and crescent join'd in one dire, dread essay.
XXXII.
Stern Moslem hosts, in barb'rous horrors clad,Rush o'er the bulwarks, warlike Romans' pride,
Each brave repeller has with cravens fled,
Or, yet, more noble, has in battle died,
With native Latin courage unbelied;
The walls, the city, and the levant clime
Are their's by conquest's overwhelming tide,
Which sweeps without one wrath provoking crime,
And reddens deeply all the rolling tide of time.
XXXIII.
Rome's last bold champion from the walls survey'd,Around him stood no hero steel'd for war,
All, all, but him had cancelled and had paid
The debt due nature; desolation far
Around displayed fell conquest's crimson car.
Now rests the combat on a single hand,
Raised heroically the course to bar
Of Moslems wielding war's destructive brand.
Tartarean hordes and fiends now occupy the strand.
XXXIV.
Wild consternation through Byzantium reigns;The holy bishop kneels in final prayer,
The virgin wakes her far resounding strains,
The matron sits in desolate despair;
But still, re-echoed by the rushing air,
Peals the wild music of the revelling halls,
While agonizing maids, with streaming hair,
Rush to Sophia's sacred, moss-grown, walls,
Their final, dread, resource, now grand Byzantium falls.
XXXV.
Like the o'erwhelming, deadly cataractThrough wave-worn rocks descending in a bed,
The fierce barbarians display a track
Mark'd by the bodies of the woful dead;
Through many a breach their rapid course is sped,
Their van-guard wrath, their rear, rapes, rapine, death;
The trumpets wail—glory has departed;
And gory walls, and headless heaps beneath
Enrich the victor's car, and dye his purple wreath.
XXXVI.
Constantine, panting from the constant toil,His quivering lance still couched for foemen's breast,
The Divan's honours still in might doth foil,
And the Porte stood in panic wide confest.
Deem it no marvel that a Christian crest,
And Roman heart bows not to Moslem nod,
Or, ancient glories should on Cæsar rest;
His bleeding kingdom felt where Othmans trod,
But he confided in the helmet of his God.
XXXVII.
He stood, and often as he cast his viewAround his tow'r, he saw the writhing nerves,
The quivering lip, the damp, and chilly dew,
The closing eye, that ne'er from combat swerves,
The swelling breast which still its country serves,
The parched tongue which strives to fire the soul,
The anxious mien, which life's dull spark preserves,
The calm composure, which pervades the whole,
Which strike his rapid glance, and warn him of his dole.
XXXVIII.
Short was the strife, but shiv'ring was the shock,For none can fight like those false-called forlorn;
Targets blunt spears—the lofty mountains rock,
At ev'ry blow limbs are asunder torn.
Still, 'mid the flames the noble hero, born
To end the royal list, doth highly tow'r;
'Tis night; and ever since the radiant morn,
He's shone, like sol before the darkling hour,
When some eclipse doth o'er his sheeny glory low'r.
XXXIX.
Piled rank on rank, the life-destroying foeAnd his brave foemen, grip'd together, cease
In gory havoc, and mutual woe
To wreak dear vengeance;—in drear death's release
They find, what life denied, a silent peace.
Alas! it was an awful strife of hate,
As crimsoned e'er the Marathon of Greece;
Human hecatombs burn for monarchs' state,
And paths of mortal flesh the conqu'rer's car await.
XL.
Constantine, placed on glory's utmost verge,Through time's long vista saw the trophied fields,
Of laurelled heroes, and the golden surge
Of patriotic heroism, which gilds
Its country's beach, but sweeps the foe, who builds
His transient empire on the wreck of pride.
But present omens no rich view that thrills
Portend to give to those on pleasure's tide,
But coming storms of wrath the future veil doth hide.
XLI.
Ah! pen of mortals cannot fire the soul,Nor combat's ardour tune the high-strung lyre,
With half the desert, that the hero's dole
Confers on him, whose mighty soul of fire
Ne'er yields its purpose, nor its high desire.
Constantine's plume, and blood-stain'd tresses stream,
His rolling eye-balls flash with dreadful ire,
As if to cast one parting fiery gleam,
Then close in endless gloom, and wake the woful scream.
XLII.
By some bold hand the mortal veil is drawn,By some unknown the gasping hero fell,
“Amidst the multitudes of Turks, who now mounted the walls, the Emperor, who accomplished all the duties of a general and a soldier, was long seen, and finally lost. The nobles, who fought around his person, sustained till their last breath, the honourable names of Palaeologos and Cantacuzene. Amidst the tumult, he fell by an unknown hand, and his body was buried under a mountain of the slain.” To him, if to any, ought to be addressed and applied these noble, and elevated lines of Dryden:
As to “Constantine,” let them search the field;And where they find a mountain of the slain,
Send one to climb, and looking down beneath,
There they will find him at his manly length,
With his face up to heaven, in that red monument,
Which his good sword had digged.
Sebastian.
Still in the pride of manhood's brightest dawn,
To kingdom—life—and hope—and all farewell;
The clash of armour rung his only knell,
A heap of subjects was his gory bed;
But ah! then burst the visionary spell,
And piercing yells resounded o'er the dead,
When the rising shade of pow'r from the vision fled.
Justiniani;—who generously volunteered his service to defend the city of Constantinople against the infidels. He was wounded towards the close of the siege, and not proving equal in fortitude to what he was in courage, deserted his post; which caused the immediate ruin of the capital.
CANTO III.
I.
Within a dome, whose moss-grown towers above,Whose dark'ning lattices, and secret cells,
Joined with the silence of the shady grove,
Show where retirement with devotion dwells,
The lovely vestal drank the sacred wells
Of pure delight, and high enraptured dreams;
O'er the still scene slow peal the matin bells,
The pendent taper through the chapel gleams,
And glorious from on high far glow the heav'nly beams.
II.
Remote from uproar and the woes of earth,On future joys was fixed the glowing mind;
Here holy visions, o'er the soul of worth,
Poured soft composure with delight combined,
Pure as the odour on Arabia's wind,
Soft as the breeze before a vernal dawn;
To one high point all ardour was confined,
From one rich source all sacred comfort drawn,
A fountain of delight, whence cooling streams have flown.
III.
In truth within the pure and snowy breast,Earth's scenes that glitter, only to delude,
Passed, like the vapours o'er the beaming west,
And on the mind no senseless thoughts intrude;
Here was the rapture of lone solitude.
Before the altar, 'mid the warbling choir,
The empyrean, in wild fancy stood,
While beaming glories raise the keen desire,
Celestial ardour, and immortal faith inspire.
IV.
Deep in a cell beyond the roar of arms,Versed in the records of the love divine,
Two lovely sisters, heedless of alarms,
In heav'nly concert their sweet voices join,
And how at once before the sacred shrine;
Rapt with delights all bursting on the view,
Their arms inlocked, their bodies they recline
Before the cross, and there again renew
Their sacred vows sublime, and render praises due.
V.
But oft, amid the fervour of the soul,Strange pangs of woe would glance across the brain;
Devotion's ecstacy could not controul
The fev'rish anguish, and mysterious pain;
A wondrous sound, like owlet's shrieking strain,
Rung mournful o'er the nodding towers of age,
Then came a groan, as if from thousands slain,
And mingling screams of horror and of rage,
As if the fiends of wrath with mortals did engage.
VI.
But all is still, save ever and anonA low faint murmur sighs along the walls;
And fervent prayers surround the heav'nly throne,
To save from wrath and hear the votive calls
Which now ring loudly through the cloister's halls;
Alas! mild mercy, with her olive wand,
Had ceased to rule where ev'ry vice enthralls,
And justice stern had bared his bloody hand,
Where flamed the dreadful sword the ensign of command.
VII.
Silence, suspense, confusion, and despairOn ev'ry visage paint their rending woe,
When crowds of vestals meet the ghastly glare
Of fires that o'er their sacred mansion glow;
A thousand Moslems raise to strike the blow,
A thousand Christians fall their captors' prey,
Around the Abbey crimson riv'lets flow,
Which show the Othmans' desolating way,
And serve full well to mark their prophet's natal day.
VIII.
The father, hoary by the roll of years,Bestows his blessing, and then meets his fate;
The mother fondly, 'mid her rolling tears,
Clasps the dear offspring of a happy state,
More dear than that which makes her heart dilate;
The wife and husband give a last farewell,
And daughters shrieking at their dire estate
E'en while they speak, attend their warlike knell,
Rung on the shield of war with rage too great to tell.
IX.
The knee, that bowed not, but to God in prayer,Now bends before the conqu'ring Turk with dread,
The heart, which swelled with ardour, or despair,
Now bending yields to fear; base flight, instead
Of death, degrades the race, whose fathers bled
The last dear life-drop from their val'rous veins,
Or, rose triumphant o'er the mountain dead.
Affright, with hair dishevelled, wildly reigns,
And cowardice runs crouching o'er the frowning plains.
X.
Swift false-confiding, trembling thousands flyTo temples, sacred to the king of love,
But yet, on which they fixed the scornful eye,
When zeal mistaken into phrenzy drove
The fellow-worshippers of God above;
But mortal hatred can give place to fear,
And wo will oft bewildered zeal disprove;
That fane polluted is a covert dear,
When horrors reign around and many a foe is near.
XI.
From th' altar, aisles, choir, gall'ry, nave, the strainOf mournful pray'r resounds with deep-felt grief,
Vestals, monks, priests, implore the Saviour slain,
But more the Virgin to bestow relief.
Their orizon was loud, imploring, brief—
Th' effulgent heavens ope—on high supreme
In love the Virgin comes
When virtue, patriotism, and sincere piety begin to decay, and the inhabitants of a country, or a kingdom repose in supine indolence, upon the approach of danger they will listen with delight to pretended revelations, and predictions of supernatural interposition.
The human mind, in such situations, will dethrone sound reason, and, believe what it fancies.
A traditionary tale, founded on the pretended prediction of an obscure mendicant, was eagerly embraced by the degenerate successors of apostles, and the stigmatized descendants of Romans.
The prediction, considered as the truth of God, was; “when the Othmans should enter a certain gate of the city, if all the people fled to the sacred churches, at their supplications, the holy Virgin would descend, and manifesting her love for her own votaries, utterly exterminate the enemies of God and man.”
The reader will be the best judge of the manner, in which the subject has been treated, and the use which has been made of this most puerile and inefficient tradition.
Is wrought to ecstacy of seraphim;
For lo! descending bright her radiant vestures gleam.
XII.
Ten thousand shouts ascend the glowing skies,As, armed with weapons of immortal might,
She nearer meets her vot'ries' waiting eyes,
Who thrill with rapture at the noble sight;
No cloud obscures the radiance of the night,
For fires unknown the firmament illume,
And fill each bosom with that high delight
Which glows more ardent from preceding gloom,
As when mild morn o'er night her empire doth resume.
XIII.
On friends she smiles exulting—Moslems feelThat awful power exalts her threat'ning sword,
Which cuts through ranks encased in shining steel,
And sweeps them with an omnipotent word;
In vain the Seignior cried, or cannon poured,
Or lance was couched, or rushed the charger on;
The invisible Virgin swept her chord
Of victory, sublime, and grand. 'Tis done—
Byzantium rise again—thy noble cause is won.
XIV.
Sweet idle visions of romantic youth,Ye oft can dazzle e'en in manhood's prime,
And sway o'er wisdom and the charms of truth;
Ye rule unbounded by a single clime,
Ye please alike in ev'ry age of time;
But ye will vanish, like the cloud of morn,
Nor leave a wreck on which to mount sublime.
Such the vain dreams of roving fancy born,
They gild a moment's scene, away the vision's torn.
XV.
Alas! so proved the vain delight and joy,Of those who trusted in a broken reed,
For dæmons; present only to destroy,
Rush fiercely onward to obtain the meed
Their bloody leader offers to his seed—
All wordly honours, and eternal bliss;
For these they war, for these rejoice to bleed,
That they might gain that sacred happiness,
In other worlds profuse, but all denied in this.
XVI.
The crash of doors, and bursting of the bars,The clash of armour, and blasphemous cries,
The shrieks of virgins, and the din of wars,
The roar around, which rends along the skies,
Convey a horror which no one denies;
The heart too full now sinks to deep despair,
Or, yet prolongs before the downcast eyes,
One lingering ray of hope, like passing air,
To wing its rapid way, without a trace what were.
XVII.
Dragged from the dome by murd'rous ruffian hands,Chained rank by rank to wait the dread decree,
Destruction round them in his triumph stands,
And waves his besom o'er the fair once free;—
In vain was bowed the supplicating knee,
Or lovely woman raised her thrilling shriek,
Amid the fray no chance was left to flee,
For each dire band obeyed its savage shiek,
Whom rapine hurries on dread vengeance round to wreak.
XVIII.
Some dragged away prolong the ling'ring view,When fades the scene, they sink; but then blood gush'd
From vestals pure who round the altar flew,
Breathed forth their pray'rs to heav'n—and all was hush'd;
Bursting, the captives to the bodies rush'd,
And dyed their kerchiefs in their gentle blood,
To hold remembrance how these saints were crush'd,
And God profaned by this ferocious brood,
By dire ambition led in most malignant mood.
XIX.
There virgins, faithful to their matron's will;Choose death in tortures, rather than a court
Which ever-changing wanton pleasures fill;
And dread Mahomed, in exulting port,
Stands fiend-like smiling at the fiend-like sport;
High rolls the rack—connected joints are torn,
Yet not a groan is heard to send report
Of mild submission—but they show forlorn,
That smiles can light the eve, tho' sorrows cloud the morn.
XX.
But love of life will bow the patriot's knee,Cast honour down and nobleness to dust,
Blast the first dawn of holy liberty,
Shroud virtue's gem with foul corruption's rust,
Cause the chaste maiden to become accursed,
And spread a gloom o'er all that we revere.
Let Dian's temple, be the last and first
Resort, by all who hold a pleasure dear,
For fraud is forceful when it virtue's vestures wear.
XXI.
Lo! the foul harem of an Othman lordBecomes the mansion of a Christian name
For ever blasted by that fatal word,
Which stamped reproach and everlasting shame
On those, the subjects of a boundless fame,
Raised on dishonour, infamy and death.
Where then was virtue? Where that Roman dame,
Whose hand refused the high imperial wreath,
And bared her breast to steel drawn glitt'ring from the sheath?
XXII.
Submissive now to yield the golden zone,The wretched crowds their deadly proffers make,
To kneel, base slaves, before a tyrant's throne,
With joys unholy the rank thirst to slake,
Of him they serve; O better far the stake
Had piled their ashes on the cursed ground,
Or gale had strewed them on a putrid lake;
Then fair composure might in death be found—
And sacred odours had been wafted all around.
XXIII.
Bishops to muftis yield the sacred seat,Temples to mosques are changed, and all anon
The pseudo-prophet's lofty praises meet
The aching ear, from Islam's ebon throne;
The muttered namaz now is heard alone
Where once, apostles raised the holy strain,
And breathed a heavenly solemn orizon.
Hope lingers not o'er such a scene of pain,
A scene where terrors rule, and high-wrought passions reign.
XXIV.
Thus fell Byzantium; and thus empires fall;At morn, as gay and soaring as the lark,
The voice of gladness echoes through the hall
Where noon-day revels kindle up the spark
Of civil discord; through rough seas the bark
Is tossed, till riven by the hidden rock,
The billows mounting, 'neath their waters dark
Embosom all by one terrific shock,
Whose rapid thunders rise, and earthly vigour mock.
XXV.
As through the vista of revolving time,Earth's various scenes and empires we survey,
May patriotism pure, and truth sublime
Attract our view, and tune the hero's lay;
Some noble minds prolong the setting day,
Of thousand kingdoms, and support their state;
Oft a Camillus doth the fall delay
Of supine climes, regardless of their fate;
Can patriots view such deeds, nor feel their hearts dilate?
XXVI.
To found an empire, and a nation rearTo deeds of virtue, and the height of fame,
The various int'rests to combine, and steer
With point unerring 'mid the loud acclaim,
Scarce thousand years suffice; but ah! the name,
The scite, the pride, the glory, of a clime
Once rich in glorious spoils, and whose claim
Was immortality, unsparing time
In one short hour can blast, or waning, or in prime.
XXVII.
Et contra when fierce savages in bloodTrack their dire course to murder and to heav'n,
When naught, but ruin, can suffice the brood
By sacred visions of their prophet driv'n
To spoil, 'till earth is all asunder riv'n,
And rear his palace with men's skulls and bones;
When states, a prey, to such fell hordes are giv'n,
Nought but wild horror, and heart-rending groans
Is seen or heard around, save deep and hollow moans.
XXVIII.
Alas! that pure religion, heav'nly maid!Should thus be mocked—polluted—made the path
To woe—to death—to hell; but man has weighed
Eternal mercies by terrestrial wrath;
Pleasures endearing and the joys he hath
Can ne'er content him; with a view afar
O'er sorrow and despair, and the wide scathe
Of battle's rage he leaps, and feasts in war,
Which crowds the charnel-house and dies the victor's car.
XXIX.
O holy Peace, composer of the breast!Where dost thou hide thy placid, heav'nly mien,
Where is thy place of tranquilizing rest,
When Mars spreads havoc o'er the lovely scene?
Unawed by wrath, undazzled by the sheen
Of direful armour, o'er the field of wo
Thy gentle visage, piteous looks between
The hostile hosts, from amber clouds below,
Scans ruthless warfare's scenes, and weeps at ev'ry blow.
XXX.
Not the dark flow of fabled AcheronTo Pluto's black, pestiferous abode,
Is half so gloomy in its progress down,
As man's fell passions which will rack, corrode
The breast, and blast all peace and joy. The road
To death resounds with cries and yells; is strewed
With human bones, and nerves, and skulls; the toad,
The bat, the serpent, and the jackal, brood,
Where cities towered on high, where haughty emp'rors stood.
XXXI.
And is there then no end to human woe?Must war's fell blood hounds ever burst their chains?
Will strife ne'er cease to reign and rage below,
Wide spreading mis'ry, pestilential pains?
Yes—these will cease, when o'er the des'late plains,
Beams heaven's own fire to raise the grov'ling mind,
Then shrieks, and cries, will sound in Zion's strains,
Then incense glow in ev'ry passing wind,
And man his race will spare—breathe love to human kind.
XXXII.
O when will time awake that radiant morn,And that bright sun arise to set no more!
When man shall honour what was once his scorn,
And prostrate worlds a God of peace adore!
Then will devotion on the seas and shore
Raise high its notes of everlasting love,
Where deadly cannon did their thunders pour;
Then distant nations on their way above,
Will meet in friendship's bands, and truly brothers prove.
XXXIII.
Heave we the sigh o'er all the various woesWhich lust of conquest, and ambition give;
But rolling time o'er piercing horrors throws
Oblivion's veil, lest man should ever grieve;
So time will pass, each age its woes receive,
And roll away, 'till o'er the eastern sky
Glows the pure light, whose flame will ever live,
To meet and gladden every mortal eye,
Through death's drear vale will guide, and waft the soul on high.
| The siege of Constantinople. A Poem | |