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 from her birth she sprung!—Long ages pass'd,
    And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide,
    Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
Pour'd by the burning East, ail joyously and fast.

II.

    Long ages pass'd!—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 Tempè'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 past
    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 sea1 :
—Oh! for a soul to tire 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 mine 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!—Aliketheir soul is gone,
    Who shared the funeral-feast on Æta's shore,
    And theirs, that o'er the field of Ascalon
    Swell'd the crusader's 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 shade2 ,
    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 rail.

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 splendor 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 low'r,
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 Towers3 , their banner waves its sign,
    And Hope is whispering in the joyous breeze,
    Which plays amidst its folds. That voice wasthine;
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 sceptred imag'ry4 ,
    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 away5 ,
    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 Vict'ry 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 voice; for thencearise
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
    Thro' 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 waters6 ! 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 th' 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 scymetar!
    Dark tribes are tossing javelins from afar,
    Hands waving banners o'er each battlement,
    Decks, with their serried guns, array'd to bar
    The promis'd aid; but hark! a shout is sent
Up from the noble barks!—the Moslem line is rent!

XXIV.

    On, on thro' 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 charger's neighing,
    The Thracian drum, the Tartar's drowsy song;
    Might almost hear the soldan's banner swaying,
    The watch-word 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 groves7 , 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 bosoms 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!

XXXI1.

    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 madehissport, 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 thisof 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 walls 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 wreath 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 Olympus8 , 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 alonethose 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, ail hurrying past below!
    But there is yet a more appalling sight
    For earth prepared, than ere, 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-echoed 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 in stillness now. May this be sleep
    Which wraps those eastern thousands? Yes, perchance
    Along yon moonlight 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 aspects9 , 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 viewed the slaughter done
    In Rome's own streets, when Alaric's trumpet-blast
    Rung 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 wreath her lovely brow
    With an imperial diadem10 !—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
    Fall'n there already?—Where is He, the One,
Born that high seat to fill, supremely and alone?

LIII.

    Oh! there are times whose pressure 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 hand,
    The gather'd virtue of a sinking land,
    Alas! how scanty!—Now is cast aside
    All form of princely state; each noble hand
    Is prest 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 ere 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!—Aye, 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 here11 —
    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.

     12 Know'st thou the land where bloom the orange bowers?
    Where through dark foliage gleam the citron's dyes?
    —It is their own. They see their father's 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 sail's 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,
    Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the air
    When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
    A mien like joy's; and when young 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 dead13 .

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.

    Again, and yet again!—from yon high dome,
    Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they
    Who never more to rest in mortal home,
    Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day,
    Th' imperial band, in close and arm'd array,
    As men that from the sword must part no more,
    Take through the midnight streets their silent way,
    Within their ancient temple to adore,
Ere yet its thousand years of christian pomp are o'er.

LXV.

    It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes,
    O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed,
    In the beleaguer'd city. Stillness lies
    With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread,
    But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread,
    The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet
    The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread
    Of many steps is in the echoing street,
And pressure of pale crowds, scarce conscious why they meet.

LXVI.

    Their homes are luxury's yet: why pour they thence
    With a dim terror in each restless eye?
    Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence,
    In darkness, with its heavy wheels, roll'd by,
    And rock'd their palaces, as if on high
    The whirlwind pass'd?—From couch and joyous board
    Hath the fierce phantom beckon'd them to die?
    —No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour'd14
More dark with wrath;—Man comes—the spoiler and the sword.

LXVII.

    Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass
    Through those pale throngs, the streaming torchlight throws
    On some wild form, amidst the living mass,
    Hues, deeply red, like lava's, which disclose
    What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!
    Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in prayer,
    Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows
    Betokening inward agonies, were there:
—Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!

LXVIII.

    But high above that scene, in bright repose,
    And beauty borrowing from the torches' gleams
    A mien of life, yet where no life-blood flows,
    But all instinct with loftier being seems,
    Pale, grand, colossal; lo! th' embodied dreams
    Of yore!—Gods, heroes, bards, in marble wrought,
    Look down, as powers, upon the wild extremes
    Of mortal passion!—Yet 'twas man that caught,
And in each glorious form enshrined immortal thought!

LXIX.

    Stood ye not thus amidst the streets of Rome?
    That Rome which witness'd, in her sceptred days,
    So much of noble death?—When shrine and dome,
    Midst clouds of incense, rung with choral lays,
    As the long triumph pass'd, with all its blaze
    Of regal spoil, were ye not proudly borne,
    O sovereign forms! concentering all the rays
    Of the soul's lightnings?—did ye not adorn
The pomp which earth stood still to gaze on and to mourn?

LXX.

    Hath it been thus?—Or did ye grace the halls,
    Once peopled by the mighty?—Haply there,
    In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls
    Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,
    Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare
    The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow
    Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air,
    The sound of lyres, the flower-crown'd goblet's flow15 :
—Behold again!—high hearts make nobler offerings now!

LXXI.

    The stately fane is reach'd—and at its gate
    The warriors pause; on life's tumultuous tide
    A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state
    Hath mark'd from all, to be more sternly tried
    By suffering, speaks:—each ruder voice hath died,
    While his implores forgiveness!—"If there be
    One midst your throngs, my people!—whom in pride,
    Or passion, I have wrong'd; such pardon, free
As mortals hope from Heaven, accord that man to me!"

LXXII.

    But all is silence; and a gush of tears
    Alone replies!—He hath not been of those
    Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears
    Of all; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes,
    To whom day brings not safety, night repose,
    For they have heard the voice cry "Sleep no more!"
    Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close
    Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er,
When it speaks low and kneels th' oppressor's throne before!

LXXIII.

     He hath been loved—but who may trust the love
    Of a degenerate race?—in other mould
    Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove
    Their faith through fiery trials.—Yet behold,
    And call him not forsaken!—Thoughts untold
    Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread
    Moves firmly to the shrine.—What pomps unfold
    Within its precincts!—Isles and seas have shed
Their gorgeous treasures there, around th' imperial dead.

LXXIV.

    'Tis a proud vision—that most regal pile
    Of ancient days!—The lamps are streaming bright
    From its rich altar, down each pillar'd aisle,
    Whose vista fades in dimness; but the sight
    Is lost in splendours, as the wavering light
    Developes, on those walls, the thousand dyes
    Of the vein'd marbles, which array their height,
    And from yon dome16 , the lode-star of all eyes,
Pour such an iris-glow as emulates the skies.

LXXV.

    But gaze thou not on these; though heaven's own hues,
    In their soft clouds and radiant tracery vie;
    Though tints, of sun-born glory, may suffuse
    Arch, column, rich mosaic: pass thou by
    The stately tombs, where eastern Cæsars lie,
    Beneath their trophies; pause not here, for know,
    A deeper source of all sublimity
    Lives in man's bosom, than the world can show,
In nature or in art, above, around, below.

LXXVI.

    Turn thou to mark (tho' tears may dim thy gaze)
    The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone;
    Heed not, tho' gems and gold around it blaze,
    Those heads unhelm'd, those kneeling forms alone,
    Thus bow'd, look glorious here. The light is thrown
    Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord,
    A sufferer! —but his task shall soon be done—
    E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd,
See to that noble brow, peace, not of earth, restored!

LXXVII.

    The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part,
    Once—and but once—to meet on earth again!
    Each, in the strength of a collected heart,
    To dare what man may dare—and know 'tis vain!
    The rite is o'er: and thou, majestic fane!
    The glory is departed from thy brow!
    Be clothed with dust!—the Christian's farewell strain
    Hath died within thy walls; thy Cross must bow;
Thy kingly tombs be spoil'd; thy golden shrines laid low!

LXXVIII.

    The streets grow still and lonely—and the star,
    The last bright lingerer in the path of morn,
    Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,
    As if young Hope with Twilight's ray were born,
    Awhile the city sleeps:—her throngs, o'erworn
    With fears and watchings, to their homes retire;
    Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn
    With battle-sounds17 ; the winds in sighs expire,
And Quiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's fire.

LXXIX.

    The city sleeps! —aye! on the combat's eve,
    And by the scaffold's brink, and midst the swell
    Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
    Thus, from her cares. The brave have slumber'd well,
    And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell,
    Chain'd between Life and Death!—Such rest be thine,
    For conflicts wait thee still!—Yet who can tell
    In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit's dream?—Sleep, weary Constantine!

LXXX.

    Doth the blast rise?—the clouded East is red,
    As if a storm were gathering; and I hear
    What seems like heavy rain-drops, or the tread,
    The soft and smother'd step, of those that fear
    Surprise from ambush'd foes. Hark! yet more near
    It comes, a many-ton'd and mingled sound;
    A rustling, as of winds where boughs are sear,
    A rolling, as of wheels that shake the ground
From far; a heavy rush, like seas that burst their bound!

LXXXI.

    Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore ascending
    In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
    Who new may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
    Thro' tower and wall, a path for their array?
    Hark! how the trumpet cheers them to the prey,
    With its wild voice, to which the seas reply!
    And the earth rocks beneath their engine's sway,
    And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!

LXXXII.

     They fail not now, the generous band, that long
    Have rang'd their swords around a falling throne;
    Still in those fearless men the walls are strong,
    Hearts, such as rescue empires, are their own!
    —Shall those high energies be vainly shown?
    No! from their towers th' invading tide is driven
    Back, like the Red-sea waves, when God had blown
    With his strong winds18 !—the dark-brow'd ranks are riven—
    Shout, warriors of the cross! for victory is of Heaven!

LXXXIII.

    Stand firm!—Again the crescent host is rushing,
    And the waves foam, as on the galleys sweep,
    With all their fires and darts, tho' blood is gushing
    Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep.
    Stand firm!—there yet is hope—th' ascent is steep,
    And from on high no shaft descends in vain;
    —But those that fall swell up the mangled heap,
    In the red moat, the dying and the slain,
And o'er that fearful bridge th' assailants mount again!

LXXXIV.

    Oh! the dread mingling, in that awful hour,
    Of all terrific sounds!—the savage tone
    Of the wild horn, the cannon's peal, the shower
    Of hissing darts, the crash of walls o'erthrown,
    The deep dull tambour's beat!—man's voice alone
    Is there unheard! Ye may not catch the cry
    Of trampled thousands—prayer, and shriek, and moan,
    All drown'd, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,
But swell the unheeded sure earth pays for victory!

LXXXV.

    War-clouds have wrapt the city!—thro' their dun
    O'erloaded canopy, at times a blaze,
    As of an angry storm-presaging sun,
    From the Greek fire shoots up19 ; and lightning rays
    Flash, from the shock of sabres, thro' the haze,
    And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air!
    —Aye! this is in the compass of our gaze,—
    But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there,
Workings of Wrath and Death, and Anguish, and Despair!

LXXXVI.

    Woe, shame and woe!—A chief, a warrior flies,
    A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!
    — Oh God! that nature's passing agonies,
    Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail!
    Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter'd mail,
    And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son20
    Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail!
    —But there are tortures which thou canst not shun,
The spirit is their prey;—thy pangs are but begun!

LXXXVII.

    Oh! happy, in their homes, the noble dead!
    The seal is set on their majestic fame;
    Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed,
    Fate has no power to dim their stainless name!
     They may not, in one bitter moment, shame
    Long glorious years; from many a lofty stem
    Fall graceful flowers, and eagle-hearts grow tame,
    And stars drop, fading, from the diadem;
But the bright past is theirs—there is no change for them!

LXXXVIII.

    Where art thou, Constantine?—Where Death is reaping
    His sevenfold harvest! Where the stormy light,
    Fast as th' artillery's thunderbolts are sweeping,
    Throws meteor-bursts o'er battle's noonday-night?
    Where the towers rock and crumble from their height,
    As to the earthquake, and the engines ply
    Like red Vesuvio; and where human might
    Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,
While scymetars ring loud on shivering panoply.

LXXXIX.

    Where art thou, Constantine?—Where christian blood
    Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain!
    Where Faith and Valour perish in the flood,
    Whose billows, rising o'er their bosoms, gain
    Dark strength each moment: where the gallant slain
    Around the banner of the cross lie strew'd,
    Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain;
    Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,
And through the breach press on th' o'erwhelming multitude.

XC.

    Now is he battling midst a host alone,
    As the last cedar stems awhile the sway
    Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown
    Its forest-brethren in their green array!
    And he hath cast his purple robe away,
    With its imperial bearings; that his sword
    An iron ransom from the chain may pay,
    And win, what haply Fate may yet accord,
A soldier's death, the all now left an empire's lord!

XCI.

    Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files
    Which once were men, the faithful and the brave!
    Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles
    Of shatter'd helms and shields, which could not save;
    And crests and banners, never more to wave
    In the free winds of heaven!—He is of those
    O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave,
    And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,
Yet wake them not!—so deep their long and last repose!

XCII.

    Woe to the vanquish'd! thus it hath been still,
    Since Time's first march!—Hark, hark, a people's cry!
    Aye! now the conquerors in the streets fulfil
    Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly;
    Hark! now each piercing tone of agony
    Blends in the city's shriek!—The lot is cast.
    Slaves, 'twas yourchoice, thus, rather thus, to die,
    Than where the warrior's blood flows warm and fast,
And rous'd and mighty hearts beat proudly to the last!

XCIII.

    Oh! well doth Freedom battle!—Men have made,
    E'en midst their blazing roofs, a noble stand,
    And on the floors, where once their children play'd,
    And by the hearths, round which their household band
    At evening met; aye! struggling hand to hand,
    Within the very chambers of their sleep,
     There have they taught the spoilers of the land,
    In chainless hearts what fiery strength lies deep,
To guard free homes!—but ye! kneel, tremblers! kneel, and weep!

XCIV.

    'Tis eve—the storm hath died—the valiant test
    Low on their shields; the day's fierce work is done,
    And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest
    Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run!
    Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun
    Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell
    (Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won)
    Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell,
The Soldan comes within the Cæsars' halls to dwell!

XCV.

    Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong,
    He comes,—the Moslem treads those ancient halls!
    But all is stillness there, as Death had long
    Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls.
    And hall that silence of the grave appals
    The conqueror's heart. Aye, thus with Triumph's hour,
    Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls
    A thought of those impervious clouds that low'r
O'er Grandeur's path, a sense of some far mightier Power!

XCVI.

    "The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung
    Her watch-song, and around th' imperial throne
    The spider weaves his web21 !" Still darkly hung
    That verse of omen, as a prophet's tone,
    O'er his flush'd spirit. Years on years have flown
    To prove its truth: kings pile their domes in air,
    That the coil'd snake may bask on sculptur'd stone,
    And nations clear the forest, to prepare
For the wild fox and wolf more stately dwellings there!

XCVII.

    But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying,
    As a crown'd leader in such hours should die,
    Upon thy pyre of shiver'd spears art lying,
    With the heavens o'er thee for a canopy,
    And banners for thy shroud!—No tear, no sigh,
    Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now
    Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear'd on high,
    The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow;
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!

XCVIII.

    "After life's fitful fever thou sleep'st well!"
    We may not mourn thee!—Sceptred chiefs, from whom
    The earth received her destiny, and fell
    Before them trembling—to a sterner doom
    Have oft been call'd. For them the dungeon's gloom,
    With its cold starless midnight, hath been made
    More fearful darkness, where, as in a tomb,
    Without a tomb's repose, the chain hath weigh'd
Their very soul to dust, with each high power decay'd.

XCIX.

    Or in the eye of thousands they have stood,
    To meet the stroke of Death—but not like thee!
    From bonds and scaffolds hath appeal'd their blood,
    But thou didst fall unfetter'd, arm'd, and free,
    And kingly, to the last!—And if it be,
    That, from the viewless world, whose marvels none
    Return to tell, a spirit's eye can see
    The things of earth; still may'st thou hail the sun,
Which o'er thy land shall dawn, when Freedom's fight is won!

C.

    And the hour comes, in storm!—A light is glancing
    Far through the forest-god's Arcadian shades!
    —'Tis not the moonbeam, tremulously dancing,
    Where lone Alpheus bathes his haunted glades;
    A murmur, gathering power, the air pervades,
    Round dark Cithæron, and by Delphi's steep;
    —'Tis not the song and lyre of Grecian maids,
    Nor pastoral reed that lulls the vales to sleep,
Nor yet the rustling pines, nor yet the sounding deep!

CI.

    Arms glitter on the mountains, which, of old,
    Awoke to freedom's first heroic strain,
    And by the streams, once crimson as they roll'd
    The Persian helm and standard to the main;
    And the blue waves of Salamis again
    Thrill to the trumpet; and the tombs reply,
    With their ten thousand echoes, from each plain,
    Far as Platæa's, where the mighty lie,
Who crown'd so proudly there the bowl of liberty22 !

CII.

    Bright land, with glory mantled o'er by song
    Land of the vision-peopled hills and streams,
    And fountains, whose deserted banks along,
    Still the soft air with inspiration teems;
    Land of the graves, whose dwellers shall be themes
    To verse for ever; and of ruin'd shrines,
    That scarce look desolate beneath such beams,
    As bathe in gold thine ancient rocks and pines!
—When shall thy sons repose in peace beneath their vines?

CIII.

     Thou wert not made for bonds, nor shame, nor fear!
    —Do the hoar oaks and dark-green laurels wave
    O'er Mantinea's earth?—doth Pindus rear
    His snows, the sunbeam and the storm to brave?
    And is there yet on Marathon a grave?
    And doth Eurotas lead his silvery line
    By Sparta's ruins?—And shall man, a slave,
    Bow'd to the dust, amid such scenes repine?
—If e'er a soil was mark'd for Freedom's step—'tis thine!

CIV.

    Wash from that soil the stains, with battle-showers!
    —Beneath Sophia's dome the Moslem prays,
    The crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers,
    In the Comneni's23 halls the Tartar sways:
    But not for long!—the spirit of those days,
    When the three hundred made their funeral pile
    Of Asia's dead, is kindling, like the rays
    Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile
Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.

CV.

    If then 'tis given thee to arise in might,
    Trampling the scourge, and dashing down the chain,
    Pure be thy triumphs, as thy name is bright!
    The cross of victory should not know a stain!
    So may that faith once more supremely reign,
    Through which we lift our spirits from the dust!
    And deem not, e'en when virtue dies in vain,
    She dies forsaken; but repose our trust
On Him whose ways are dark, unsearchable—but just.

NOTES.

ELYSIUM.

"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal regions." Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme.

            FAIR wert thou, in the dreams
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers,
And summer-winds, and low-ton'd silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel-bowers!
            Where, as they pass'd, bright hours
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

            Fair wert thou, with the light
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night,
Yet soft as if each moment were their last
            Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

            And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Eolian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
            To summer's breezy sigh!
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!

            And the transparent sky
Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain
Of harps that, midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
            With dreams and yearnings vain,
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewildering music of the earth.

            And who, with silent tread,
Mov'd o'er the plains of waving Asphodel?
Who, of the hosts, the night-o'erpeopling dead,
Amidst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
            And listen to the swell
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale
The spirit wandering in th' immortal gale?

            They of the sword, whose praise,
With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round!
They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
            And in all regions found
Their echoes midst the mountains!—and become
In man's deep heart, as voices of his home!

            They of the daring thought!
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied;
Whose flight thro' stars, and seas, and depths had sought
The soul's far birth-place—but without a guide!
            Sages and seers, who died,
And left the world their high mysterious dreams,
Born midst the olive-woods, by Grecian streams.

            But they, of whose abode
Midst her green valleys earth retain'd no trace,
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod,
A shade of sadness on some kindred face,
            A void and silent place
In some sweet home;—thou hadst no wreaths for these,
Thou sunny land! with all thy deathless trees!

            The peasant, at his door
Might sink to die, when vintage-feasts were spread,
And songs on every wind!—From thy bright shore
No lovelier vision floated round his head,
            Thou wert for nobler dead!
He heard the bounding steps which round him fell,
And sigh'd to bid the festal sun farewell!

            The slave, whose very tears
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast
Shut up the woes and burning thoughts of years,
As in the ashes of an urn compress'd;
            —He might not be thy guest!
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky
Came o'er his path, and whisper'd "Liberty!"

            Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier,
Unlike a gift of nature to decay,
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear,
The child at rest before its mother lay;
            E'en so to pass away,
With its bright smile!—Elysium! what wertthou,
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow?

            Thou hadst no home, green land!
For the fair creature from her bosom gone,
With life's first flowers just opening in her hand,
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown,
            Which in its clear eye shone
Like the spring's wakening!—But that light was past—
—Where went the dew-drop, swept before the blast?

            Not where thy soft winds play'd,
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep!—
Fade, with thy bowers, thou land of visions, fade!
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep,
            And bade man cease to weep!
Fade, with the amaranth-plain, the myrtle-grove,
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love!

            For the most lov'd are they,
Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion-voice
In regal halls!—the shades o'erhang their way,
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice,
            And gentle hearts rejoice
Around their steps!—till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye.

            And the world knows not then,
Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they, that on the souls of men
Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,
            The long-remember'd dead!
But not with thee might aught save Glory dwell—
—Fade, fade away, thou shore of Asphodel!

GREEK SONGS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism, which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem, The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended in 1294 for Sancho, King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by Guzman, surnamed the Good* . The second is related of Alonso Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara† .

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to

[Note *:]

See Quintana's 'Vidas de Españoles celebres,' p. 53.

[Note †:]

See the Preface to Southey's "Chronicle of the Cid."

the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of nationality might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted "to describe high passions and high actions;" by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved "faithful unto death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis personae with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon"Valencia del Cid" as the scene to give them

"A local habitation and a name."

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• ALVAR GONZALEZ . . Governor of Valencia.
• ALPHONSO
  CARLOS . . . His Sons.
• HERNANDEZ . . . . A Priest.
• ABDULLAH . . . A Moorish Prince, Chief of the Army besieging Valencia.
• GARCIAS . . . . . A Spanish Knight.

• ELMINA . . . . . Wife to Gonzalez.
• XIMENA . . . . . Her Daughter.
• THERESA . . . . An Attendant.

• Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.