 | The siege of Constantinople. A Poem |  |
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.
| The siege of Constantinople. A Poem | |