Chapter XXIII: Part II (2)

A chieftain’s mien her Osbert bore,
A pilgrim’s lowly robes he wore--
Disguise that vainly strove to hide
Bearing and glance of martial pride;
For he in many a battle-scene,
On many a rampart breach had been;
Had sternly smiled at danger nigh,
Had seen the valiant bleed and die,
And proudly rear’d on hostile tower,
Midst falchion clash and arrowy shower,
Britannia’s banner high!
And though some ancient feud had taught
His Bertha’s sire to loathe his name,
More noble warrior never fought
For glory’s prize or England’s fame.
And well his dark, commanding eye,
And form and step of stately grace,
Accorded with achievements high,
Soul of emprise and chivalry,
Bright name, and generous race!
His cheek, embrown’d by many a sun,
Tells a proud tale of glory won,
Of vigil, march, and combat rude,
Valour, and toil, and fortitude!
E’en while youth’s earliest blushes threw
Warm o’er that cheek their vivid hue,
His gallant soul, his stripling form,
Had braved the battle’s rudest storm;
When England’s conquering archers stood,
And dyed thy plain, Poitiers! with blood,
When shiver’d axe, and cloven shield,
And shatter’d helmet, strew’d the field,
And France around her king in vain
Had marshall’d valour’s noblest train--
In that dread strife his lightning eye
Had flash’d with transport keen and high,
And midst the battle’s wildest tide,
Throbb’d his young heart with hope and pride.

Alike that fearless heart could brave
Death on the war-field or the wave;
Alike in tournament or fight,
That ardent spirit found delight!
Yet oft, midst hostile scenes afar,
Bright o’er his soul a vision came,
Rising like some benignant star,
On stormy seas or plains of war,
To soothe, with hopes more dear than fame,
The heart that throbb’d to Bertha’s name!
And midst the wildest rage of fight,
And in the deepest calm of night,
To her his thoughts would wing their flight
With fond devotion warm;
Oft would those glowing thoughts portray
Some home, from tumults far away,
Graced with that angel form!
And now his spirit fondly deems
Fulfill’d its loveliest, dearest dreams!

Who, with pale cheek, and locks of snow,
In minstrel garb attends the chief?
The moonbeam on his thoughtful brow
Reveals a shade of grief.
Sorrow and time have touch’d his face
With mournful yet majestic grace,
Soft as the melancholy smile
Of sunset on some ruin’d pile!
--It is the bard, whose song had power
To lure the maiden from her tower--
The bard, whose wild inspiring lays,
E’en in gay childhood’s earliest days,
First woke, in Osbert’s kindling breast,
The flame that will not be represt,
The pulse that throbs for praise!
Those lays had banish’d from his eye
The bright soft tears of infancy,
Had soothed the boy to calm repose,
Had hush’d his bosom’s earliest woes;
And when the light of thought awoke,
When first young reason’s day-spring broke,
More powerful still, they bade arise
His spirit’s burning energies!
Then the bright dream of glory warm’d,
Then the loud pealing war-song charm’d,
The legends of each martial line,
The battle-tales of Palestine:
And oft, since then, _his_ deeds had proved
Themes of the lofty lays he loved!
Now, at triumphant love’s command,
Since Osbert leaves his native land,
Forsaking glory’s high career
For her than glory far more dear;
Since hope’s gay dream and meteor ray
To distant regions point his way,
That there Affection’s hands may dress
A fairy bower for happiness;
That fond devoted bard, though now
Time’s wintery garland wreathes his brow,
Though quench’d the sunbeam of his eye,
And fled his spirit’s buoyancy,
And strength and enterprise are past,
Still follows constant to the last!
Though his sole wish was but to die
Midst the calm scenes of days gone by,
And all that hallows and endears
The memory of departed years--
Sorrow, and joy, and time, have twined
To those loved scenes his pensive mind;
Ah! what can tear the links apart
That bind his chieftain to his heart?
What smile but _his_ with joy can light
The eye obscured by age’s night?
Last of a loved and honour’d line,
Last tie to earth in life’s decline,
Till death its lingering spark shall dim,
That faithful eye must gaze on him!

Silent and swift, with footstep light,
Haste on those fugitives of night.
They reach the boat--the rapid oar
Soon wafts them from the wooded shore:
The bark is gain’d! A gallant few,
Vassals of Osbert, form its crew;
The pennant, in the moonlight beam,
With soft suffusion glows;
From the white sail a silvery gleam
Falls on the wave’s repose;
Long shadows undulating play,
From mast and streamer, o’er the bay;
But still so hush’d the summer air,
They tremble, midst that scene so fair,
Lest morn’s first beam behold them there.
--Wake, viewless wanderer! breeze of night!
From river wave, or mountain height,
Or dew-bright couch of moss and flowers,
By haunted spring in forest bowers;
Or dost thou lurk in pearly cell,
In amber grot, where mermaids dwell,
And cavern’d gems their lustre throw
O’er the red sea-flowers’ vivid glow?
Where treasures, not for mortal gaze,
In solitary splendour blaze,
And sounds, ne’er heard by mortal ear,
Swell through the deep’s unfathom’d sphere?
What grove of that mysterious world
Holds thy light wing in slumber furl’d?
Awake! o’er glittering seas to rove:
Awake! to guide the bark of love!
Swift fly the midnight hours, and soon
Shall fade the bright propitious moon;
Soon shall the waning stars grow pale,
E’en now--but lo! the rustling sail
Swells to the new-sprung ocean gale!
The bark glides on--their fears are o’er;
Recedes the bold romantic shore,
Its features mingling fast.
Gaze, Bertha! gaze: thy lingering eye
May still each lovely scene descry
Of years for ever past!
There wave the woods, beneath whose shade
With bounding step thy childhood play’d,
Midst ferny glades and mossy lawns,
Free as their native birds and fawns;
Listening the sylvan sounds, that float
On each low breeze, midst dells remote--
The ringdove’s deep melodious moan,
The rustling deer in thickets lone;
The wild-bee’s hum, the aspen’s sigh,
The wood-stream’s plaintive harmony.
Dear scenes of many a sportive hour,
There thy own mountains darkly tower!
Midst their gray rocks no glen so rude
But thou hast loved its solitude!
No path so wild but thou hast known,
And traced its rugged course alone!
The earliest wreath that bound thy hair
Was twined of glowing heath-flowers there.
There in the day-spring of thy years,
Undimm’d by passions or by tears,
Oft, while thy bright, enraptured eye
Wander’d o’er ocean, earth, or sky,
While the wild breeze that round thee blew,
Tinged thy warm cheek with richer hue.
Pure as the skies that o’er thy head
Their clear and cloudless azure spread,
Pure as that gale whose light wing drew
Its freshness from the mountain dew,
Glow’d thy young heart with feelings high,
A heaven of hallow’d ecstasy!
Such days were thine! ere love had drawn
A cloud o’er that celestial dawn!
As the clear dews in morning’s beam
With soft reflected colouring stream,
Catch every tint of eastern gem
To form the rose’s diadem,
But vanish when the noontide hour
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower--
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,
Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,
Or linger’d only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,
And call forth, in each grassy glen,
Her brightest emerald dyes!
There shall the lonely mountain rose,
Wreath of the cliffs, again disclose;
Midst rocky dells, each well-known stream
Shall sparkle in the summer beam;
The birch, o’er precipice and cave,
Its feathery foliage still shall wave,
The ash midst rugged clefts unveil
Its coral clusters to the gale,
And autumn shed a warmer bloom
O’er the rich heath and glowing broom.
But thy light footstep there no more
Each path, each dingle shall explore.
In vain may smile each green recess,
--Who now shall pierce its loneliness?
The stream through shadowy glens may stray,
--Who now shall trace its glistening way?
In solitude, in silence deep,
Shrined midst her rocks, shall Echo sleep,
No lute’s wild swell again shall rise
To wake her mystic melodies.
All soft may blow the mountain air,
--It will not wave thy graceful hair!
The mountain rose may bloom and die,
--It will not meet thy smiling eye!
But like those scenes of vanish’d days,
Shall others ne’er delight;
Far lovelier lands shall meet thy gaze,
Yet seem not half so bright!
O’er the dim woodlands’ fading hue
Still gleams yon Gothic pile on high;
Gaze on, while yet ’tis thine to view
That home of infancy!
Heed not the night-dew’s chilling power,
Heed not the sea-wind’s coldest hour,
But pause and linger on the deck,
Till of those towers no trace, no speck,
Is gleaming o’er the main;
For when the mist of morn shall rise,
Blending the sea, the shore, the skies,
That home, once vanish’d from thine eyes,
Shall bless them ne’er again!

There the dark tales and songs of yore
First with strange transport thrill’d thy soul,
E’en while their fearful mystic lore
From thy warm cheek the life-bloom stole.
There, while thy father’s raptured ear
Dwelt fondly on a strain so dear,
And in his eye the trembling tear
Reveal’d his spirit’s trance;
How oft, those echoing halls along,
Thy thrilling voice has swell’d the song--
Tradition wild of other days,
Or troubadour’s heroic lays,
Or legend of romance!
Oh! many an hour has there been thine,
That memory’s pencil oft shall dress
In softer shades, and tints that shine
In mellow’d loveliness!
While thy sick heart, and fruitless tears,
Shall mourn, with fond and deep regret,
The sunshine of thine early years,
Scarce deem’d so radiant--till it set!
The cloudless peace, unprized till gone,
The bliss, till vanish’d hardly known!

On rock and turret, wood and hill,
The fading moonbeams linger still,
Still, Bertha! gaze on yon gray tower,
At evening’s last and sweetest hour,
While varying still, the western skies
Flush’d the clear seas with rainbow dyes,
Whose warm suffusions glow’d and pass’d,
Each richer, lovelier, than the last.
How oft, while gazing on the deep,
That seem’d a heaven of peace to sleep,
As if its wave, so still, so fair,
More frowning mien might never wear,
The twilight calm of mental rest
Would steal in silence o’er thy breast,
And wake that dear and balmy sigh
That softly breathes the spirit’s harmony!
--Ah! ne’er again shall hours to thee be given
Of joy on earth--so near allied to heaven!

Why starts the tear to Bertha’s eye?
Is not her long-loved Osbert nigh?
Is there a grief his voice, his smile,
His words, are fruitless to beguile?
--Oh! bitter to the youthful heart,
That scarce a pang, a care has known,
The hour when first from scenes we part,
Where life’s bright spring has flown!
Forsaking, o’er the world to roam,
That little shrine of peace--our home!
E’en if delighted fancy throw
O’er that cold world, her brightest glow,
Painting its untried paths with flowers,
That will not live in earthly bowers,
(Too frail, too exquisite, to bear
One breath of life’s ungenial air;)
E’en if such dreams of hope arise
As heaven alone can realise,
Cold were the breast that would not heave
One sigh, the home of youth to leave;
Stern were the heart that would not swell
To breathe life’s saddest word--farewell!
Though earth has many a deeper woe,
Though tears more bitter far must flow,
That hour, whate’er our future lot,
That first fond grief, is ne’er forgot!

Such was the pang of Bertha’s heart,
The thought, that bade the tear-drop start;
And Osbert by her side
Heard the deep sigh, whose bursting swell
Nature’s fond struggle told too well;
And days of future bliss portray’d,
And love’s own eloquence essay’d,
To soothe his plighted bride!
Of bright Arcadian scenes he tells,
In that sweet land to which they fly;
The vine-clad rocks, the fragrant dells
Of blooming Italy.
For he had roved a pilgrim there,
And gazed on many a spot so fair
It seem’d like some enchanted grove,
Where only peace, and joy, and love,
Those exiles of the world, might rove,
And breathe its heavenly air;
And, all unmix’d with ruder tone,
Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!
Far from the frown of stern control,
That vainly would subdue the soul,
There shall their long-affianced hands
Be join’d in consecrated bands.
And in some rich, romantic vale,
Circled with heights of Alpine snow,
Where citron-woods enrich the gale,
And scented shrubs their balm exhale,
And flowering myrtles blow;
And midst the mulberry boughs on high
Weaves the wild vine her tapestry;
On some bright streamlet’s emerald side,
Where cedars wave in graceful pride,
Bosom’d in groves, their home shall rise,
A shelter’d bower of paradise!
Thus would the lover soothe to rest
With tales of hope her anxious breast;
Nor vain that dear enchanting lore
Her soul’s bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight
Float in soft colouring o’er her sight.
----O Youth! sweet May-morn, fled so soon,
Far brighter than life’s loveliest noon,
How oft thy spirit’s buoyant power
Will triumph, e’en in sorrow’s hour
Prevailing o’er regret!
As rears its head th’ elastic flower
Though the dark tempest’s recent shower
Hang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope’s gay smile
The aged bard to joy beguile;
Those silent years that steal away
The cheek’s warm rose, the eye’s bright ray,
Win from the mind a nobler prize,
E’en all its buoyant energies!
For him the April days are past,
When grief was but a fleeting cloud;
No transient shade will sorrow cast,
When age the spirit’s might has bow’d!
And, as he sees the land grow dim,
That native land now lost to him,
Fix’d are his eyes, and clasp’d his hands,
And long in speechless grief he stands:
So desolately calm his air,
He seems an image wrought to bear
The stamp of deep, though hush’d despair.
Motion and life no sign bespeaks,
Save that the night-breeze, o’er his cheeks,
Just waves his silvery hair!
Nought else could teach the eye to know
He was no sculptured form of woe!
Long gazing o’er the dark’ning flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood,
Till the cold moon was waning fast,
And many a lovely star had died,
And the gray heavens deep shadows cast
Far o’er the slumbering tide;
And, robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.
Then, starting from his trance of woe,
Tears, long suppress’d, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain
Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD’S FAREWELL.

“Thou setting moon! when next thy rays
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from thy gaze,
These eyes in vain shall weep;
And wander o’er the lonely sea,
And fix their tearful glance on thee--
On thee! whose light so softly gleams
Through the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

“But midst those ancient groves, no more
Shall I thy quivering lustre hail;
Its plaintive strain my harp must pour
To swell a foreign gale.
The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke
When its full tones their stillness broke,
Deserted now, shall hear alone
The brook’s wild voice, the wind’s mysterious moan.

“And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,
Left by your lord to slow decay,
Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!
There shall no choral songs resound,
There shall no festal board be crown’d;
But ivy wreathe the silent gate,
And all be hush’d, and cold, and desolate.

“No banner from the stately tower
Shall spread its blazon’d folds on high;
There the wild brier and summer flower,
Unmark’d, shall wave and die.
Home of the mighty! thou art lone,
The noonday of thy pride is gone,
And, midst thy solitude profound,
A step shall echo like unearthly sound!

“From thy cold hearths no festal blaze
Shall fill the hall with ruddy light,
Nor welcome with convivial rays
Some pilgrim of the night.
But there shall grass luxuriant spread,
As o’er the dwellings of the dead;
And the deep swell of every blast
Seem a wild dirge for years of grandeur past.

“And I--my joy of life is fled,
My spirit’s power, my bosom’s glow;
The raven locks that graced my head,
Wave in a wreath of snow!
And where the star of youth arose
I deem’d life’s lingering ray should close,
And those loved trees my tomb o’ershade,
Beneath whose arching bowers my childhood play’d.

“Vain dream! that tomb in distant earth
Shall rise, forsaken and forgot;
And thou, sweet land that gavest me birth!
A grave must yield me not.
Yet, haply, he for whom I leave
Thy shores, in life’s dark winter eve,
When cold the hand, and closed the lays,
And mute the voice he loved to praise,
O’er the hush’d harp one tear may shed,
And one frail garland o’er the minstrel’s bed!”

BELSHAZZAR’S FEAST.

Twas night in Babylon: yet many a beam,
Of lamps far glittering from her domes on high,
Shone, brightly mingling in Euphrates’ stream
With the clear stars of that Chaldean sky,
Whose azure knows no cloud: each whisper’d sigh
Of the soft night-breeze through her terrace bowers,
Bore deepening tones of joy and melody,
O’er an illumined wilderness of flowers;
And the glad city’s voice went up from all her towers.

But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival,
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury’s hand
Had shower’d around all treasures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeams back; all sweets of many a land
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore
--But mortal pride look’d on, and still demanded more.

With richer zest the banquet may be fraught,
A loftier theme may swell the exulting strain!
The lord of nations spoke,--and forth were brought
The spoils of Salem’s devastated fane.
Thrice-holy vessels!--pure from earthly stain,
And set apart, and sanctified to Him
Who deign’d within the oracle to reign,
Reveal’d yet shadow’d; making noonday dim,
To that most glorious cloud between the cherubim.

They came, and louder peal’d the voice of song,
And pride flash’d brighter from the kindling eye;
And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold
Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!

Peace!--is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall,
Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again
To search its cause? Along the illumined wall,
Startling yet riveting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves,--a hand, a human hand,
O’er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall,
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of some far-distant land!

There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering limbs, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts!--the wine, in triumph pour’d,
Untasted foams, the song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth--and lo!
The king of men, the ruler, girt with mirth,
Trembles before a shadow! Say not so!
--The child of dust, with guilt’s foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread Unknown, the avenging Infinite!

“But haste ye!--bring Chaldea’s gifted seers,
The men of prescience! Haply to _their_ eyes,
Which track the future through the rolling spheres,
Yon mystic sign may speak in prophecies.”
They come--the readers of the midnight skies,
They that gave voice to visions--but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language midst the starry train,
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.

Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!--one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind;
Telling of inward mysteries--joys and woes
In lone recesses of the soul enshrined;
Depths of a being seal’d and sever’d from mankind.

Yes!--what was earth to him, whose spirit pass’d
Time’s utmost bounds? on whose unshrinking sight
Ten thousand shapes of burning glory cast
Their full resplendence? Majesty and might
Were in his dreams; for him the veil of light
Shrouding heaven’s inmost sanctuary and throne,
The curtain of th’ unutterably bright,
Was raised!--to him, in fearful splendour shown,
Ancient of Days! e’en Thou madest thy dread presence known.

He spoke--the shadows of the things to come
Pass’d o’er his soul:--“O King, elate in pride!
God hath sent forth the writing of thy doom--
The one, the living God, by thee defied!
He, in whose balance earthly lords are tried,
Hath weigh’d, and found thee wanting. ’Tis decreed
The conqueror’s hands thy kingdom shall divide,
The stranger to thy throne of power succeed!
Thy days are full: they come,--the Persian and the Mede!”

There fell a moment’s thrilling silence round--
A breathless pause!--the hush of hearts that beat,
And limbs that quiver. Is there not a sound,
A gathering-cry, a tread of hurrying feet?
--’Twas but some echo in the crowded street,
Of far-heard revelry; the shout, the song,
The measured dance to music wildly sweet,
That speeds the stars their joyous course along--
Away! nor let a dream disturb the festal throng!

Peace yet again! Hark! steps in tumult flying,
Steeds rushing on, as o’er a battle-field!
The shouts of hosts exulting or defying,
The press of multitudes that strive or yield!
And the loud startling clash of spear and shield,
Sudden as earthquake’s burst; and, blent with these,
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is seal’d
In their full mirth!--all deepening on the breeze,
As the long stormy roll of far-advancing seas!

And nearer yet the trumpet’s blast is swelling,
Loud, shrill, and savage, drowning every cry;
And, lo! the spoiler in the regal dwelling,
Death--bursting on the halls of revelry!
Ere on their brows one fragile rose-leaf die,
The sword hath raged through joy’s devoted train;
Ere one bright star be faded from the sky,
Red flames, like banners, wave from dome and fane;
Empire is lost and won--Belshazzar with the slain.[204]

[Belshazzar’s Feast had previously been published in the _Collection of Poems from Living Authors_, edited for a benevolent purpose by Mrs Joanna Baillie.--_Memoir_, p. 68.

“Miss Baillie’s volume contained several poems by Mrs Hemans; some _jeux d’esprit_, by the late Miss Catherine Fanshawe, a woman of rare wit and genius, in whose society Scott greatly delighted; and, _inter alia_, Mr William Howison’s early ballad of Polydore, which had been originally published under Scott’s auspices, in the Edinburgh Register for 1810.”--Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_, vol. v. p. 287.

It is worthy of remembrance that Sir Walter’s own “Macduff’s Cross,” and Southey’s lively and eccentric nursery rhymes on the “Cataract of Lodoar,” first made their appearance in the collection referred to.]

[204] As originally written, the following additional stanzas (afterwards omitted) concluded this poem:--

Fallen is the golden city! In the dust,
Spoil’d of her crown, dismantled of her state,
She that hath made the strength of towers her trust
Weeps by her dead, supremely desolate!
She that beheld the nations at her gate,
Thronging in homage, shall be call’d no more
Lady of kingdoms! Who shall mourn her fate?
Her guilt is full, her march of triumph o’er--
What widow’d land shall now her widowhood deplore?

Sit thou in silence! Thou that wert enthroned
On many waters!--thou, whose augurs read
The language of the planets, and disown’d
The mighty Name it blazons!--veil thy head,
Daughter of Babylon! The sword is red
From thy destroyer’s harvest, and the yoke
Is on thee, O most proud!--for thou hast said,
“I am, and none beside!” Th’ Eternal spoke;
Thy glory was a spoil, thine idol-gods were broke!

But go thou forth, O Israel!--wake! rejoice!
Be clothed with strength, as in thine ancient day!
Renew the sound of harps, th’ exulting voice,
The mirth of timbrels!--loose the chain, and say
God hath redeem’d his people!--from decay
The silent and the trampled shall arise!
Awake!--put on thy beautiful array,
O long-forsaken Zion!--to the skies
Send up on every wind thy choral melodies!

And lift thy head!--Behold thy sons returning
Redeem’d from exile, ransom’d from the chain,
Light hath revisited the house of mourning:
She that on Judah’s mountains wept in vain,
Because her children were not, dwells again
Girt with the lovely! Through thy streets once more,
City of God! shall pass the bridal train,
And the bright lamps their festive radiance pour,
And the triumphal hymns thy joy of youth restore.

THE LAST CONSTANTINE.

... “Thou strivest nobly,
When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk;
And o’er thy fall, if it be so decreed,
Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears
...
... Fame I look not for;
But to sustain, in Heaven’s all-seeing eye,
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight,
With graceful virtue and becoming pride,
The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus station’d as I am, I will do all
That man may do.”
Miss Baillie’s “Constantine Palæologus.”

I.

The fires grew pale on Rome’s deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia’s voice had died;
--Shout for the City of the Constantines,
The rising city of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross!--great ocean’s bride,
Crown’d with her birth she sprung! Long ages past,
And still she look’d in glory o’er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Pour’d by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

II.

Long ages past!--they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broider’d her mantle, and her castled walls
Frown’d in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep
She lay, and murmur’d if a rose-leaf’s fold
Disturb’d her dreams; and call’d her slaves to keep
Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o’er the deep.

III.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling
Free hearts and fearless only may exclude;
’Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling,
Breaks on the soft repose by luxury woo’d!
There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude
Where the lamps glitter and the wine-cup flows;
And darker hues have stain’d the marble, strew’d
With the fresh myrtle and the short-lived rose;
And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.

IV.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar
Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er
Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d,
But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.

V.

And it is thus again! Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast,
A music of the deserts, wild and deep,
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are pass’d
Where low midst Ilion’s dust her conquerors sleep,
O’ershadowing with high names each rude sepulchral heap.

VI.

War from the West!--the snows on Thracian hills
Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands
Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills
Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands.
War from the East!--midst Araby’s lone sands,
More lonely now the few bright founts may be,
While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands
Against the Golden City of the sea.[205]
--Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!

VII.

Hear yet again, ye mighty!--Where are they
Who, with their green Olympic garlands crown’d,
Leap’d up in proudly beautiful array,
As to a banquet gathering, at the sound
Of Persia’s clarion? Far and joyous round,
From the pine forests, and the mountain snows,
And the low sylvan valleys, to the bound
Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose!
--Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?

VIII.

They slumber with their swords!--the olive shades
In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale.
Yet must _thou_ wake, though all unarm’d and pale,
Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear,
Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail
Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear!
--Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!

IX.

Be hush’d, thou faint and feeble voice of weeping!
Lift ye the banner of the Cross on high,
And call on chiefs, whose noble sires are sleeping
In their proud graves of sainted chivalry,
Beneath the palms and cedars, where they sigh
To Syrian gales! The sons of each brave line
From their baronial halls shall hear your cry,
And seize the arms which flash’d round Salem’s shrine,
And wield for you the swords once waved for Palestine!

X.

All still, all voiceless!--and the billow’s roar
Alone replies! Alike _their_ soul is gone
Who shared the funeral-feast on Œta’s shore,
And _theirs_ that o’er the field of Ascalon
Swell’d the crusaders’ hymn! Then gird thou on
Thine armour, Eastern Queen! and meet the hour
Which waits thee ere the day’s fierce work is done
With a strong heart: so may thy helmet tower
Unshiver’d through the storm, for generous hope is power!

XI.

But linger not,--array thy men of might!
The shores, the seas, are peopled with thy foes.
Arms through thy cypress groves are gleaming bright,
And the dark huntsmen of the wild, repose
Beneath the shadowy marble porticoes
Of thy proud villas. Nearer and more near,
Around thy walls the sons of battle close;
Each hour, each moment, hath its sound of fear,
Which the deep grave alone is charter’d not to hear!

XII.

Away! bring wine, bring odours, to the shade[206]
Where the tall pine and poplar blend on high!
Bring roses, exquisite, but soon to fade!
Snatch every brief delight,--since we must die!--
Yet is the hour, degenerate Greeks! gone by,
For feast in vine-wreath’d bower or pillar’d hall;
Dim gleams the torch beneath yon fiery sky,
And deep and hollow is the tambour’s call,
And from the startled hand th’ untasted cup will fall.

XIII.

The night--the glorious oriental night,
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven,
With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light,
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven,
To the still firmament’s expanse hath given
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower
Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower,
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.

XIV.

Sounds from the waters, sounds upon the earth,
Sounds in the air, of battle! Yet with these
A voice is mingling, whose deep tones give birth
To faith and courage! From luxurious ease
A gallant few have started! O’er the seas,
From the Seven Towers,[207] their banner waves its sign;
And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze,
Which plays amidst its folds. That voice was _thine_;
_Thy_ soul was on that band, devoted Constantine.

XV.

Was Rome thy parent? Didst thou catch from _her_
The fire that lives in thine undaunted eye?
--That city of the throne and sepulchre
Hath given proud lessons how to reign and die!
Heir of the Cæsars! did that lineage high,
Which, as a triumph to the grave, hath pass’d
With its long march of spectred imagery,[208]
Th’ heroic mantle o’er thy spirit cast?
Thou! of an eagle-race the noblest and the last!

XVI.

Vain dreams! Upon that spirit hath descended
Light from the living Fountain, whence each thought
Springs pure and holy! In that eye is blended
A spark, with earth’s triumphal memories fraught,
And, far within, a deeper meaning, caught
From worlds unseen. A hope, a lofty trust,
Whose resting-place on buoyant wing is sought
(Though through its veil seen darkly from the dust)
In realms where Time no more hath power upon the just.

XVII.

Those were proud days, when on the battle-plain,
And in the sun’s bright face, and midst th’ array
Of awe-struck hosts, and circled by the slain,
The Roman cast his glittering mail away,[209]
And while a silence, as of midnight, lay
O’er breathless thousands at his voice who started,
Call’d on the unseen terrific powers that sway
The heights, the depths, the shades; then, fearless-hearted,
Girt on his robe of death, and for the grave departed!

XVIII.

But then, around him as the javelins rush’d,
From earth to heaven swell’d up the loud acclaim;
And, ere his heart’s last free libation gush’d,
With a bright smile, the warrior caught his name
Far-floating on the winds! And Victory came,
And made the hour of that immortal deed
A life, in fiery feeling! Valour’s aim
Had sought no loftier guerdon. Thus to bleed
Was to be Rome’s high star!--He died--and had his meed.

XIX.

But praise--and dearer, holier praise be theirs,
Who, in the stillness and the solitude
Of hearts press’d earthwards by a weight of cares,
Uncheer’d by Fame’s proud hope, th’ ethereal food
Of restless energies, and only view’d
By Him whose eye, from his eternal throne,
Is on the soul’s dark places; have subdued
And vow’d themselves with strength till then unknown,
To some high martyr-task, in secret and alone.

XX.

Theirs be the bright and sacred names, enshrined
Far in the bosom! for their deeds belong,
Not to the gorgeous faith which charm’d mankind
With its rich pomp of festival and song,
Garland, and shrine, and incense-bearing throng;
But to that Spirit, hallowing, as it tries
Man’s hidden soul in whispers, yet more strong
Than storm or earthquake’s voice; for _thence_ arise
All that mysterious world’s unseen sublimities.

XXI.

Well might _thy_ name, brave Constantine! awake
Such thought, such feeling!--But the scene again
Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break
Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain,
The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane,
With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace;
Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main,
And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race--
The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.

XXII.

Shout, ye seven hills! Lo! Christian pennons streaming
Red o’er the waters![210] Hail, deliverers, hail!
Along your billowy wake the radiance gleaming,
Is Hope’s own smile! They crowd the swelling sail,
On, with the foam, the sunbeam and the gale,
Borne, as a victor’s car! The batteries pour
Their clouds and thunders; but the rolling veil
Of smoke floats up the exulting winds before!
--And oh! the glorious burst of that bright sea and shore!

XXIII.

The rocks, waves, ramparts, Europe’s, Asia’s coast,
All throng’d! one theatre for kingly war!
A monarch, girt with his barbaric host,
Points o’er the beach his flashing scimitar!
Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
Hands waving banners o’er each battlement,
Decks, with their serried guns, array’d to bar
The promised aid: but hark! a shout is sent
Up from the noble barks!--the Moslem line is rent!

XXIV.

On, on through rushing flame and arrowy shower,
The welcome prows have cleft their rapid way;
And, with the shadows of the vesper hour,
Furl’d their white sails, and anchor’d in the bay.
Then were the streets with song and torch-fire gay,
Then the Greek wines flow’d mantling in the light
Of festal halls; and there was joy!--the ray
Of dying eyes, a moment wildly bright--
The sunset of the soul, ere lost to mortal sight.

XXV.

For vain that feeble succour! Day by day
Th’ imperial towers are crumbling, and the sweep
Of the vast engines, in their ceaseless play,
Comes powerful, as when heaven unbinds the deep!
--Man’s heart is mightier than the castled steep,
Yet will it sink when earthly hope is fled;
Man’s thoughts work darkly in such hours, and sleep
Flies far; and in _their_ mien, the walls who tread,
Things by the brave untold may fearfully be read!

XXVI.

It was a sad and solemn task, to hold
Their midnight-watch on that beleaguer’d wall!
As the sea-wave beneath the bastions roll’d,
A sound of fate was in its rise and fall;
The heavy clouds were as an empire’s pall,
The giant shadows of each tower and fane
Lay like the grave’s; a low mysterious call
Breathed in the wind, and, from the tented plain,
A voice of omens rose with each wild martial strain.

XXVII.

For they might catch the Arab chargers neighing,
The Thracian drum, the Tartar’s drowsy song;
Might almost hear the soldan’s banner swaying,
The watchword mutter’d in some eastern tongue.
Then flash’d the gun’s terrific light along
The marble streets, all stillness--not repose;
And boding thoughts came o’er them, dark and strong;
For heaven, earth, air, speak auguries to those
Who see their number’d hours fast pressing to the close.

XXVIII.

But strength is from the Mightiest! There is one
Still in the breach and on the rampart seen,
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun,
And tells in silence how the night hath been
In kingly halls a vigil: yet serene
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye;
And there is that in his collected mien,
To which the hearts of noble men reply
With fires, partaking not this frame’s mortality!

XXIX.

Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate
To pass o’er earth in brightness but alone;
High power was made their birthright, to create
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own!
A thousand echoes of their spirit’s tone
Start into life, where’er their path may be,
Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown
O’er Indian groves,[211] a wanderer wild and free,
Kindling and bearing flames afar from tree to tree!

XXX.

And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast
On evil days, thou Cæsar!--yet the few,
That set their generous bosom to the blast
Which rocks thy throne--the fearless and the true,
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew
The free devotion of the years gone by,
When from bright dreams th’ ascendant Roman drew
Enduring strength! States vanish--ages fly--
But leave one task unchanged--to suffer and to die!

XXXI.

These are our nature’s heritage. But thou,
The crown’d with empire! thou wert call’d to share
A cup more bitter. On thy fever’d brow
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear,
Which long had pass’d away; alone to bear
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came
As a strong billow in their weight of care,
And with all this to smile! For earth-born frame
These are stern conflicts, yet they pass, unknown to fame!

XXXII.

Her glance is on the triumph, on the field,
On the red scaffold; and where’er, in sight
Of human eyes, the human soul is steel’d
To deeds that seem as of immortal might,
Yet are proud Nature’s! But her meteor-light
Can pierce no depths, no clouds; it falls not where
In silence, and in secret, and in night,
The noble heart doth wrestle with despair,
And rise more strong than death from its unwitness’d prayer.

XXXIII.

Men have been firm in battle; they have stood
With a prevailing hope on ravaged plains,
And won the birthright of their hearths with blood,
And died rejoicing, midst their ancient fanes,
That so their children, undefiled with chains,
Might worship there in peace. But they that stand
When not a beacon o’er the wave remains,
Link’d but to perish with a ruin’d land,
Where Freedom dies with them--call _these_ a martyr-band!

XXXIV.

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance,
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye,
It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance
Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony
Was made _his_ sport, who, knowing _one_ must die,
Reck’d not _which_ champion; but prepared the strain,
And bound the bloody wreath of victory,
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain,
The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.

XXXV.

The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught
With _this_ of Liberty, that now the need
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought,
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed,
With Hope’s fair-seeming drapery. We are freed
From tasks like these by misery: one alone
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed,
Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown
How brief the cloudy space which parts the grave and throne.

XXXVI.

The signs are full. They are not in the sky,
Nor in the many voices of the air,
Nor the swift clouds. No fiery hosts on high
Toss their wild spears: no meteor banners glare,
No comet fiercely shakes its blazing hair;
And yet the signs are full: too truly seen
In the thinn’d ramparts, in the pale despair
Which lends one language to a people’s mien,
And in the ruin’d heaps where wall and towers have been!

XXXVII.

It is a night of beauty: such a night
As, from the sparry grot or laurel-shade,
Or wave in marbled cavern rippling bright,
Might woo the nymphs of Grecian fount and glade
To sport beneath its moonbeams, which pervade
Their forest haunts; a night to rove alone
Where the young leaves by vernal winds are sway’d,
And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;

XXXVIII.

A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers
The shades of elder bards; a night to hold
Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old;
A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould,
To strew sweet flowers--for revellers to fill
And wreathe the cup--for sorrows to be told
Which love hath cherish’d long. Vain thoughts! be still!
It is a night of fate, stamp’d with Almighty Will!

XXXIX.

It _should_ come sweeping in the storm, and rending
The ancient summits in its dread career!
And with vast billows wrathfully contending,
And with dark clouds o’ershadowing every sphere!
But He, whose footstep shakes the earth with fear,
Passing to lay the sovereign cities low,
Alike in His omnipotence is near,
When the soft winds o’er spring’s green pathway blow,
And when His thunders cleave the monarch mountain’s brow.

XL.

The heavens in still magnificence look down
On the hush’d Bosphorus, whose ocean stream
Sleeps with its paler stars: the snowy crown
Of far Olympus,[212] in the moonlight gleam,
Towers radiantly, as when the Pagan’s dream
Throng’d it with gods, and bent th’ adoring knee;
--But that is past--and now the One Supreme
Fills not alone _those_ haunts, but earth, air, sea,
And Time, which presses on to finish his decree.

XLI.

Olympus, Ida, Delphi! ye, the thrones
And temples of a visionary might,
Brooding in clouds above your forest zones,
And mantling thence the realms beneath with night:
Ye have look’d down on battles--Fear and Flight,
And arm’d Revenge, all hurrying past below!--
But there is yet a more appalling sight
For earth prepared than e’er, with tranquil brow,
Ye gazed on from your world of solitude and snow!

XLII.

Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp,
And Asia’s hills re-echo’d to a cry
Of savage mirth! Wild horn and war-steeds’ tramp
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry,
The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky
A hue of menace and of wrath put on,
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high,
And countless as the flames in ages gone,
Streaming to heaven’s bright queen from shadowy Lebanon!

XLIII.

But all is stillness now. May this be sleep
Which wraps those Eastern thousands? Yes! perchance
Along yon moonlit shore and dark-blue deep,
Bright are their visions with the Houri’s glance,
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance
Beneath the bowers of paradise that shed
Rich odours o’er the faithful; but the lance,
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread,
Ere Fate fulfil such dreams, must rest beside the dead.

XLIV.

May this be sleep, this hush?--A sleepless eye
Doth hold its vigil midst that dusky race!
One that would scan th’ abyss of destiny
E’en now is gazing on the skies to trace,
In those bright worlds, the burning isles of space,
Fate’s mystic pathway: they the while, serene,
Walk in their beauty; but Mohammed’s face
Kindles beneath their aspect,[213] and his mien,
All fired with stormy joy, by that soft light is seen.

XLV.

Oh! wild presumption of a conqueror’s dream,
To gaze on those pure altar-fires, enshrined
In depths of blue infinitude, and deem
They shine to guide the spoiler of mankind
O’er fields of blood! But with the restless mind
It hath been ever thus! and they that weep
For worlds to conquer, o’er the bounds assign’d
To human search, in daring pride would sweep,
As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.

XLVI.

But ye! that beam’d on Fate’s tremendous night,
When the storm burst o’er golden Babylon;
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light
O’er burning Salem, by the Roman won;
And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter done
In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast
Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on!
_Still_ bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.

XLVII.

For it hath mighty lessons! from the tomb,
And from the ruins of the tomb, and where,
Midst the wreck’d cities in the desert’s gloom,
All tameless creatures make their savage lair,
_Thence_ comes its voice, that shakes the midnight air,
And calls up clouds to dim the laughing day,
And thrills the soul;--yet bids us not despair,
But make one Rock our shelter and our stay,
Beneath whose shade all else is passing to decay!

XLVIII.

The hours move on. I see a wavering gleam
O’er the hush’d waters tremulously fall,
Pour’d from the Cæsars’ palace; now the beam
Of many lamps is brightening in the hall,
And from its long arcades and pillars tall
Soft graceful shadows undulating lie
On the wave’s heaving bosom, and recall
A thought of Venice, with her moonlight sky,
And festal seas and domes, and fairy pageantry.

XLIX.

But from that dwelling floats no mirthful sound!
The swell of flute and Grecian lyre no more,
Wafting an atmosphere of music round,
Tells the hush’d seaman, gliding past the shore,
How monarchs revel there! Its feasts are o’er--
Why gleam the lights along its colonnade?
--I see a train of guests in silence pour
Through its long avenues of terraced shade,
Whose stately founts and bowers for joy alone were made!

L.

In silence, and in arms! With helm--with sword--
These are no marriage garments! Yet e’en now
Thy nuptial feast should grace the regal board,
Thy Georgian bride should wreathe her lovely brow
With an imperial diadem![214]--but thou,
O fated prince! art call’d, and these with thee,
To darker scenes; and thou hast learn’d to bow
Thine Eastern sceptre to the dread decree,
And count it joy enough to perish--being free!

LI.

On through long vestibules, with solemn tread,
As men, that in some time of fear and woe,
Bear darkly to their rest the noble dead,
O’er whom by day their sorrows may not flow,
The warriors pass: their measured steps are slow,
And hollow echoes fill the marble halls,
Whose long-drawn vistas open as they go
In desolate pomp; and from the pictured walls,
Sad seems the light itself which on their armour falls!

LII.

And they have reach’d a gorgeous chamber, bright
With all we dream of splendour; yet a gloom
Seems gather’d o’er it to the boding sight,
A shadow that anticipates the tomb!
Still from its fretted roof the lamps illume
A purple canopy, a golden throne;
But it is empty!--hath the stroke of doom
Fallen there already? Where is He, the One,
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

LIII.

Oh! there are times whose pleasure doth efface
Earth’s vain distinctions! When the storm beats loud,
When the strong towers are tottering to their base,
And the streets rock,--who mingle in the crowd?
--Peasant and chief, the lowly and the proud,
Are in that throng! Yes, life hath many an hour
Which makes us kindred, by one chast’ning bow’d,
And feeling but, as from the storm we cower,
What shrinking weakness feels before unbounded power!

LIV.

Yet then that Power, whose dwelling is on high,
Its loftiest marvels doth reveal, and speak,
In the deep human heart more gloriously,
Than in the bursting thunder! Thence the weak,
They that seem’d form’d, as flower-stems, but to break
With the first wind, have risen to deeds whose name
Still calls up thoughts that mantle to the cheek,
And thrill the pulse!--Ay, strength no pangs could tame
Hath look’d from woman’s eye upon the sword and flame!

LV.

And this is of such hours!--That throne is void,
And its lord comes uncrown’d. Behold him stand,
With a calm brow, where woes have not destroy’d
The Greek’s heroic beauty, midst his band,
The gather’d virtue of a sinking land--
Alas! how scanty! Now is cast aside
All form of princely state; each noble hand
Is press’d by turns in his: for earthly pride
There is no room in hearts where earthly hope hath died!

LVI.

A moment’s hush--and then he speaks--he speaks!
But not of hope! _that_ dream hath long gone by:
His words are full of memory--as he seeks,
By the strong names of Rome and Liberty,
Which yet are living powers that fire the eye,
And rouse the heart of manhood; and by all
The sad yet grand remembrances, that lie
Deep with earth’s buried heroes; to recall
The soul of other years, if but to grace their fall!

LVII.

His words are full of faith!--and thoughts, more high
Than Rome e’er knew, now fill his glance with light;
Thoughts which give nobler lessons how to die,
Than e’er were drawn from Nature’s haughty might!
And to that eye, with all the spirit bright,
Have theirs replied in tears, which may not shame
The bravest in such moments! ’Tis a sight
To make all earthly splendours cold and tame,
--That generous burst of soul, with its electric flame!

LVIII.

They weep--those champions of the Cross--they weep,
Yet vow themselves to death! Ay, midst that train,
Are martyrs, privileged in tears to steep
Their lofty sacrifice! The pang is vain,
And yet its gush of sorrow shall not stain
A warrior’s sword. Those men are strangers here:[215]
The homes they never may behold again,
Lie far away, with all things blest and dear,
On laughing shores, to which their barks no more shall steer!

LIX.

Know’st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?[216]
Where, through dark foliage, gleam the citron’s dyes?
--It is their own. They see their fathers’ towers
Midst its Hesperian groves in sunlight rise:
They meet, in soul, the bright Italian eyes
Which long and vainly shall explore the main
For their white sails’ return: the melodies
Of that sweet land are floating o’er their brain--
Oh! what a crowded world one moment may contain!

LX.

Such moments come to thousands!--few may die
Amidst their native shades. The young, the brave,
The beautiful, whose gladdening voice and eye
Made summer in a parent’s heart, and gave
Light to their peopled homes; o’er land and wave
Are scatter’d fast and far, as rose-leaves fall
From the deserted stem. They find a grave
Far from the shadow of th’ ancestral hall,
A lonely bed is theirs, whose smiles were hope to all!

LXI.

But life flows on, and bears us with its tide,
Nor may we, lingering, by the slumberers dwell,
Though they were those once blooming at our side
In youth’s gay home! Away! what sound’s deep swell
Comes on the wind?--It is an empire’s knell,
Slow, sad, majestic, pealing through the night!
For the last time speaks forth the solemn bell
Which calls the Christians to their holiest rite,
With a funereal voice of solitary might.

LXII.

Again, and yet again! A startling power
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear,
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour
Checkering life’s crowded path. They fill the air
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
A mien like joy’s; and when your brides are led
From their paternal homes; and when the glare
Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red,
And when the silent house receives its guest--the dead.[217]

LXIII.

But to those tones what thrilling soul was given
On that last night of empire! As a spell
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven,
On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell.
Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell
Of sceptres passing from their line away,
An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell,
The requiem of a faith’s departing sway,
A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.

LXIV.