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.

(175)

THE

LAST CONSTANTINE.

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, 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 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 Hamus 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 Ishmael's bow is bent in warrior-hands Against the Golden City of the Sea; (1) -Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopyla!

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?