For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame, The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. None, save thou and thine, I've sworn,
Shall be left upon the morn:
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,
Where our hands shall be joined, and our sorrow
There thou yet shalt be my bride, When once again I've quell'd the pride Of Venice; and her hated race Have felt the arm they would debase, Scourge, with a whip ef scorpions, those Whom vice and envy made my foes."
Upon his hand she laid her own
Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, And shot a chillness to his heart, Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, He could not loose him from its hold; But never did clasp of one so dear Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, As those thin fingers, long and white, Froze through his blood by their touch that night. The feverish glow of his brow was gone,
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue So deeply changed from what he knew;
Fair but faint-without the ray
Of mind, that made each feature play Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; And her motionless lips lay still as death, And her words came forth without her breath, And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell, Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix'd With aught of change, as the eyes may seem, Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down
From the shadowy wall where their images frown; Fearfully flitting to and fro,
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.
If not for love of me be given
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,- Again I say that turban tear From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare, O: thou art lost; and never shalt see Not earth-that's past-but heaven or me. If this thou dost accord, albeit
A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, That doom shall half absolve thy sin, And mercy's gate may receive thee within But pause one moment more, and take The curse of Him thou didst forsake; And look once more to heaven, and see Its love for ever shut from thee. There is a light cloud by the moon-7 Tis passing, and will pass full soon- If, by the time its vapory sail Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed, Then God and man are both avenged; Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill."
Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky;
But his heart was swollen, aud turn'd aside By deep, interminable pride.
This first false passion of his breast Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. He sue for mercy! He dismay'd By wild words of a timid maid! He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save Her sons, devoted to the grave! No-though that cloud were thunder's worst, And charged to crush him-let it burst!
He look'd upon it earnestly, Without an accent of reply;
He watch'd it passing; it is flown : Full on his eye the clear moon shone, And thus he spake " Whate'er my fate, I am no changeling-'tis too late: The reed in storms may bow and quiver, Then rise again; the tree must shiver What Venice made me, I must be, Her foe in all, save love to thee: But thou art safe: oh, fly with me!” He turn'd, but she is gone!
Nothing is there but the column stone.
Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there
The night is past, and shines the sun As if that morn were a jocund one. Lightly and brightly breaks away The Morning from her mantle gray, And the Noon will look on a sultry day. Hark to the trump, and the drum,
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, And the flap of the banners that flit as they're borne, And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, And the clash, and the shout, " they come, they come!"
The horsetails 8 are pluck'd from the ground, and the sword
From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman,
Strike your tents, and throng to the van, Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,
That the fugitive may flee in vain,
When he breaks from the town; and none escape Aged or young, in the Christian shape; While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane; White is the foam of their champ on the bit: The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit; The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, And crush the wall they have crumbled before: Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, So is the blade of his scimitar;
The khan and the pachas are all at their post; The vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on; Leave not in Corinth a living one-
A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. God and the prophet-Alla Hu!
Up to the skies with that wild halloo !
"There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale;
And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail?
He who first downs with the red cross may crave His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!" Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, And the shout of tierce thousands in joyous ire; Silence-hark to the signal-fire!
As the wolves, that headlong go
On the stately buffalo,
Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar,
And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, He tramples on the earth, or tosses on high The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die, Thus against the wall they went, Thus the first were backward bent; Many a bosom, sheath'd in brass, Strew'd the earth like broken glass, Shiver'd by the shot, that tore
The ground whereon they moved no more; Even as they fell, in files they lay, Like the mower's grass at the close of day, When his work is done on the levell'd plain; Such was the fall of the foremost slain.
As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, From the cliffs invading dash
Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, Till white and thundering down they go, Like the avalanche's snow,
On the Alpine vales below;
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn,
Corinth's sons were downward borne
By the long and oft renew'd
Charge of the Moslem multitude.
In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, Hand to hand, and foot to foot: Nothing there, save death, was mute; Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry For quarter, or for victory,
Mingle there with the volleying thunder, Which makes the distant cities wonder How the sounding battle goes,
If with them, or for their foes;
If they must mourn, or may rejoice
In that annihilating voice,
Which pierces the deep hills through and through
With an echo dread and new:
You might have heard it, on that day,
O'er Salamis and Megara;
(We have heard the hearers say,)
Even unto Piræus bay.
From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, Sabres and swords with blood were gilt;
Still he combated unwounded, Though retreating, unsurrounded. Many a scar of former fight Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright; But every wound his body bore, Each and all had been ta'en before: Though aged, he was so iron of limb, Few of our youth could cope with him; And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay. Outnumber'd his thin hairs of silver gray. From right to left his sabre swept: Many an Othman mother wept Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd His weapon first in Moslem gore, Ere his years could count a score. Of all he might have been the sire Who fell that day beneath his ire: For, sonless left long years ago, His wrath made many a childless foe; And since the day, when in the strait His only boy had met his fate, His parent's iron hand did doom More than a human hecatomb. If shades by carnage be appeased, Patroclus' spirit less was pleased Than his, Minotti's son who died Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. Buried he lay where, thousands before
For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore What of them is left, to tell
Where they lie, and how they fell?
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves But they live in the verse that immortality saves.
Hark to the Allah shout! a band
Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand Their leader's nervous arm is bare, Swifter to smite, and never to spare- Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on: Thus in the fight is he ever known;
Others a gaudier garb may show,
To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe,
Many a hand's on a richer hilt,
But none on a steel more ruddily gilt
Many a loftier turban may wear,
Alp is but known by the white arm bare;
Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there There is not a standard on that shore
So well advanced the ranks before;
There is not a banner in Moslem war Will lure the Delhis haif so far; It glances like a falling star! Where'er that mighty arm is seen, The bravest be, or late have been ; There the craven cries for quarter Vainly to the vengeful Tartar; Or the hero, silent lying, Scorns to yield a groan in dying; Mustering his last feeble blow 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe,
Though faint beneath the mutual wound Grappling on the gory ground.
Still the old man stood erect, And Alp's career a moment check'd. "Yield thee, Minotti; quarter take For thine own, thy daughter's sake."
"Never, renegado, never!
Though the life of thy gift would last for ever."
"Francesca!-Oh my promised bride! Must she too perish by thy pride?"
"She is safe."-"Where? where ?"-"In heaven; From whence thy traitor soul is drivenFar from thee, and undefiled.”
Grimly then Minotti smiled,
As he saw Alp staggering bow
Before his words, as with a blow.
"Oh God! when died she?"-"Yesternight- Nor weep I for her spirit's flight: None of my pure race shall be Slaves to Mahomet and thee- Come on!"-That challenge is in vain- Alp's already with the slain! While Minotti's words were wreaking More revenge in bitter speaking
Than his falchion's point had found, Had the time allow'd to wound, From within the neighboring porch Of a long defended church, Where the last and desperate few
Would the failing fight renew,
The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground; Ere an eye could view the wound
That crash'd through the brain of the infidel, Round he spun, and down he fell; A flash like fire within his eyes Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, And then eternal darkness sunk Through all the palpitating trunk ; Nought of life left, save a quivering Where his limbs were slightly shivering: They turn'd him on his back; his breast And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, And through his lips the life-blood oozed, From its deep veins lately loosed; But in his pulse there was no throb, Nor on his lips one dying sob; Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath Heralded his way to death: Ere his very thought could pray, Unanell'd he pass'd away,
Without a hope from mercy's aid,- To the last a renegade.
Fearfully the yell arose
Of his followers and his foes; These in joy, in fury those; Then again in conflict mixing,
Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, Interchanged the blow and thrust Hurling warriors in the dust. Street by street, and foot by foot, Still Minotti dares dispute
The latest portion of the land Left beneath his high command; With him, aiding heart and hand, The remnant of his gallant band. Still the church is tenable,
Whence issued late the fated ball That half avenged the city's fall, When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell: Thither bending sternly back, They leave before a bloody track; And, with their faces to the foe, Dealing wounds with every blow, The chief, and his retreating train, Join to those within the fane; There they yet may breathe awhile, Shelter'd by the massy pile
Minotti lifted his aged eye, And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, Inward and onward the Mussulman came.
The vaults beneath the mosaic stone Contain'd the dead of ages gone; Their names were on the graven floor, But now illegible with gore;
The carved crests, and curious hues, The varied marble's veins diffuse,
Were smear'd, and slippery-stain'd, and strown With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown: There were dead above, and the dead below Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;
You might see them piled in sable state, By a pale light through a gloomy grate; But War had enter'd their dark caves, And stored along the vaulted graves Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread In masses by the fleshless dead: Here, throughout the siege, had been The Christians' chiefest magazine; To these a late-form'd train now led, Minotti's last and stern resource Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. XXXII.
The foe came on, and few remain
To strive, and those must strive in vain : For lack of further lives, to slake The thirst of vengeance now awake, With barbarous blows they gash the dead, And lop the already lifeless head, And fell the statues from their niche, And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, And from each other's rude hands wrest The silver vessels saints had bless'd. To the high altar on they go; Oh, but it made a glorious show!
On its table still behold
The cup of consecrated gold;
Massy and deep, a glittering prize,
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes:
That morn it held the holy wine,
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine,
Which his worshippers drank at the break of day To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray.
Still a few drops within it lay;
And round the sacred table glow
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,
From the purest metal cast;
A spoil-the richest, and the last.
So near they came, the nearest stretch'd To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd,
When old Minotti's han 1
Touch'd with the torch the train
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain,
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, All that of living or dead remain, Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane,
In one wild roar expired!
The shatter'd town-the walls thrown down- The waves a moment backward bent- The hills that shake, although unrent,
As if an earthquake pass'd- The thousand shapeless things all driven In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, By that tremendous blast- Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er On that too long afflicted shore: Up to the sky like rockets go All that mingled there below: Many a tall and goodly man, Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, When he fell to earth again Like a cinder strew'd the plain: Down the ashes shower like rain; Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles With a thousand circling wrinkles; Some fell on the shore, but, far away, Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay; Christian or Moslem, which be they? Let their mothers see and say! When in cradled rest they lay, And each nursing mother smiled On the sweet sleep of her child, Little deem'd she such a day Would rend those tender limbs away. Not the matrons that them bore Could discern their offspring more; That one moment feft no trace More of human form or face, Save a scatter'd scalp or bone: And down came blazing rafters, strown Around, and many a falling stone, Deeply dinted in the clay, All blacken'd there and reeking lay. All the living things that heard That deadly earth-shock disappear'd; The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled, And howling left the unburied dead; The camels from their keepers broke; The distant steer forsook the yoke- The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, And burst his girth, and tore his rein; The bullfrog's note, from out the marsh, Deepmouth'd arose, and doubly harsh The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, Where echo roll'd in thunder still; The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,10 Bay'd from afar complainingly, With a mix'd and mournful sound, Like crying babe, and beaten hound: With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, The eagle left his rocky nest, And mounted nearer to the sun,
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun; Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, And made him higher soar and shriek- Thus was Corinth lost and won!
NOTES TO THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.
The Turcoman hath left his herd. Page 166, line 38. The life of the Turcomans is wandering and pa- triarch.al: they dwell in tents.
Coumourgi-he whose closing scene.
Page 167, line 57.
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone. Page 169, line 37.
I must here acknowledge a close, though unin tentional, resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called "Christabel." It was not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singu larly original and beautiful poem recited; and the MS. of that production I never saw till very recentAli Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and ly, by the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, Grand Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Pelo-I hope, is convinced that I have not been a wilful ponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has been composed plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains mortally wounded in the next, against the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in the plain that he will not longer delay the publication of a above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope of Carlowitz.) in Hungary, endeavoring to rally his guards. He died of his wounds, next day. His production, of which I can only add my mite of aplast order was the decapitation of General Breuner, probation to the applause of far more competent and some other German prisoners: and his last judges. words, "Oh that I could thus serve all the Christian dogs!" a speech and act not unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition and unbounded presumption: on being told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, "was a great general," he said, "I shall become a greater, and At his expense."
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. Page 169, line 91. The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no perceptible tides in the Mediterranean.
And their white tusks craunch'd o'er the whiter skull. Page 170, line 8.
This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow terrace of which projects between the wall and the water. I think the fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some refractory Janizaries.
And each scalp nad a single long tuft of hair. Page 170, line 60. This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition at Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it.
There is a light cloud by the moon. Page 171, line 61.
I have been told that the idea expressed from lines 588 to 603 has been admired by those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad of it: but it is not orignal-at least not mine; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182-3-4 of the Eng lish version of "Vathek," (I forget the precise page of the French,) a work to which I have before referred, and never recur to, or read, without a renewal of gratification.
The horsetails are pluck'd from_the ground, and the sword. Page 171, line 106. The horsetail fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's stand- ard.
And since the day when in the strait. Page 172, line 98. In the naval battle, at the mouth of the Dard nelles between the Venetians and the Turks
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry. Page 174, line 109.
I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor heard these animals; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them by hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow armies.
« AnteriorContinuar » |