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-sounds; the winds in sighs expire,
And quiet broods in mists that veil the sunbeam's fire.
The city sleeps!-ay! 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 slumbered well,
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell,
Chained 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 !
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 smothered step, of those that fear
Surprise from ambushed foes. Hark! yet more near
It comes, a many-toned 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!
Wake, wake! They come from sea and shore, ascending
In hosts your ramparts! Arm ye for the day!
Who now may sleep amidst the thunders rending,
Through 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 engines' sway,
And the far hills repeat their battle-cry,
Till that fierce tumult seems to shake the vaulted sky!
They fail not now, the generous band, that long
Have ranged 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 the invading tide is driven
Back, like the Red-sea waves, when God had blown
With His strong winds!-the dark-browed ranks are rivenShout, warriors of the cross !-for victory is of Heaven!
Stand firm!-Again the crescent host is rushing,
And the waves foam, as on the galley's sweep,
With all their fires and darts, though blood is gushing
Fast o'er their sides, as rivers to the deep.
Stand firm !-there yet is hope, the 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 the assailants mount again!
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 drowned, as that fierce hurricane sweeps by,
But swell the unheeded sum earth pays for victory!
War-clouds have wrapt the city!—through their dun,
O'erloaded canopy, at times ablaze,
As of an angry storm-presaging sun,
From the Greek fire shoots up; and lightning rays
Flash, from the shock of sabres, through the haze,
And glancing arrows cleave the dusky air!
-Ay! this is in the compass of our gaze,-
But fearful things, unknown, untold, are there,
Workings of wrath and death, and anguish, and despair!
Woe, shame and woe !—A chief, a warrior flies,
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!
-O God! that nature's passing agonies,
Thus, o'er the spark which dies not, should prevail !
Yes! rend the arrow from thy shattered mail,
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son!
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!
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!
Where art thou, Constantine?—where death is reaping
His sevenfold harvest !-where the stormy light,
Fast as the 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 scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.
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 strewed,
Thick as the vine-leaves on the autumnal plain;
Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued,
And through the breach press on the o'erwhelming multitude.
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!
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 shattered 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 !
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 Platea's, where the mighty lie,
Who crowned so proudly there the bowl of liberty!
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 ruined 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?
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,
Bowed to the dust, amid such scenes repine?
-If e'er a soil was marked for freedom's step, 'tis thine!
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's 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.
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.
I. THE STORM OF DELPHI,1
FAR through the Delphian shades
An Eastern trumpet rung!
And the startled eagle rushed on high!
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky;
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades,
To the sweeping winds were flung.
Banners, with deep-red gold
All waving as aflame,
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed,
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told
That in arms the Persian came.
He came with starry gems
On his quiver and his crest;
With starry gems, at whose heart the day
Of the cloudless orient burning lay,
And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems,
As onward his thousands pressed.
But a gloom fell o'er their way,
And a heavy moan went by!
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, But a mortal murmur of dismay,
Or a warrior's dying sigh!
A gloom fell o'er their way!
'Twas not the shadow cast
By the dark pine-boughs, as they crossed the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ;-
The air was filled with a mightier sway-
But on the spearmen passed!
1 See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's Greece.
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