Chronicles and Characters :: :: University of Virginia Library

And while he spake, Byzantium's golden gates
From silver clarions to the setting sun
Breathed farewells musical; and, Day being done,
Night enter'd swift to meet the Sons of Night.

Not black however, but in blaze of light
Luxurious.

Gardens. Galleries. Walls o'erlaid
With marvellous, many-colour'd marbles, made

By multitudes of fragrant flames, that pant
From flashing silver lampads, fulgurant:
Cornelian, agate, jasper, Istrian stone
And Canan mix'd, to shame the glories gone
From Roman streets since first Mamurra had
His own housewalls with milkwhite marble clad.
And down deep lengths of glowing colonades
The dim lamps twinkle soft thro' slumbrous shades
Around rich-foliaged frieze, and capitals
Of columns opening into halls and halls
Warm with sweet air, and wondrous colour roll'd
From rare mosaics—azure dasht with gold;
'Neath domes of purple populous with star
On star of silver, coved o'er circular
Vermiculated pavements interlaid
With wreaths of flowers and intricatest braid
Of delicate device, about the base
Of granite basins broad, which all the race
Of sea-gods and sea-horses linger round,
In love for ever with the long cool sound
Of lucent waters that low-laughing fall
And fall from pedestal to pedestal
Among those curling nymphs and tritons bold
That bridle restive dolphins rein'd with gold.
Beyond, 'twixt pillar'd range and statued plinth,
The lustrous maze of marble labyrinth
Unfolds; and, disentangling from itself
Its luminous spaces, spreads into a shelf

Of shining floorage carpeted with deep
Thick-tufted crimsons, soft as summer sleep
Under the footsteps of delicious dreams.
O'er which, thro' dark arcades, steal airy gleams
And sumptuous odours, and melifluous waves
Of music that with swimming languor laves
Dim gardens green and deep, and flowery plots
Where minstrels strike their golden angelots,
And sing—now, Cæsar's splendour, Cæsar's state,
That doth Olympian glories emulate,
—And now, lascivious songs, the wanton loves
Of Mars and Venus,—till the lemon groves
Are loud with lyric rapture.

Piled and built
On glowing tables, garlanded and gilt,
Of Mauritanian tree, the Banquet shines,
—Bright-beaming vessels brimm'd with costly wines,
And savorous fruits on golden salvers heap'd,
And smoking meats in misty spices steep'd—
All round the terraced porch. In plenitude
Of power, here, midmost of his multitude
Of Greek Patricians robed in purple pomp
Alexius sits. Meanwhile the bronzen tromp,
Blown from dim-gaping galleries far behind,
Strives, with the clang of sudden cymbals join'd,
To crush all feebler sound out of each dull
Low wail, or intense shriek, that in the lull

Of that loud music ever and anon
Some wind, from outer darkness pour'd upon
The palace thresholds, pulsing passionate,
Contrives to filter thro' the golden grate.

Along a brilliant frieze of burnish'd wall
That beams behind the throne Imperial,
In rangèd groups emboss'd and painted, blaze
Byzantine sculptures that perpetuate praise
Of Trajan's Justice, and the Sages Seven
Of Antique Greece: between whose tablets driven
Great cedarn beams, that prop the deep pavilion,
Drop cataracts down of silken streams vermilion.
Beneath, in bronze, Alcides with his club,
And that she-wolf that had for sucking cub
Rome's founder. But before the Emperor gleam
High argent censers, whence thick odours stream
From left to right in vast voluptuous clouds
Of incense that with floating mist enshrouds
His glory like a God's. And by his side
At his left hand, dark-hair'd delicious-eyed
Egyptian Jesraäl leans. Around her twine
The curling odours, and the fragrant wine
Is lucent on her humid lip: and he,
Beneath the loaded board, with amorous knee
Frets her lascivious tunic's light-spun folds,
And in hot palm her languid finger holds.
Anon, with heated eyes, turning from her

(All glitter and all glare) to Muzufer
(All gravity, all gloom) that sits meanwhile
On his lord's right,—forgetting even to smile
So much his mind is busy at the task
Of plotting how to slip from life's main masque
Silently, unperceived, by some side-way
Into safe darkness, ere God's Judgment lay
Pride's revel all in ruins . . . for he read
Strange writing on the walls,—Alexius said
“What wise and weighty matter is astir
Behind those knitted brows?”

Then Muzufer,
Like one surprised without his armour on,
Caught up his smile in haste, and answer'd “None,
Great Master, weigh more anxiously than I
The mighty interests of Your Majesty;
Whose greatness needs must oft oppress the brain
Compell'd its utmost faculty to strain
In contemplating the august extent
Of power that doth, as doth heaven's firmament,
Invest the world with glory. Who oppose
Your Majesty, oppose mankind, which owes
From realms unnumber'd homage to your rule.
Who doubts this is a miscreant and a fool:
Whoe'er Your Majesty's most sacred, high,
And solemn rights dare question or deny
Is a vile traitor and an arrant knave:

But they that now in arms presume to brave
Your power supreme are sinners more accurst
Than any, save (if such there be) that worst
Of wicked men that, being Grecian born,
This barbarous rabble doth not loathe and scorn
More than Turk, Jew, or Saracenic scum
Of nameless nations scorn'd by Christendom.
If such there be, were he my father's son,
Myself would hold, to hang that caitiff on,
No gibbet high enough. My thoughts are these.”

“Paul's body!” quoth Alexius, “well they please
Our passing humour. Wherefore we assign
Hereby, from this time forth to thee and thine
In title principal, and lordship free,
Our palace of Chalcedon by the Sea.”

And while he spake thus, echoed by the shout
“Long live Alexius!” from the gates without
Hoarse hubbub stream'd, and up the revelling hall,
Bearing the banner'd bird imperial,
A legionary captain, pale with fear,
Made way towards the throne.

To whom “What cheer?”
With husky wine-quench'd voice the Emperor cried,
And to the Emperor, rueful, he replied
“Ill cheer, Sir Emperor! The Latin Host

Hath fall'n upon Chalcedon. We have lost
Many brave men, and one fair palace you.”
“Pish!” cried the Emperor. “The Franks are few.
What's lost to-night may be to-morrow won,
Palaces be there many a fairer one
For us to feast in, you to fight for, still.
Begone!”