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