More glorious than the day which it usurp'd! O, faith in God! O, power on earth! O, word Of the great Prophet, whose overshadowing wings Darken'd the thrones and idols of the west, Now bright! For thy sake cursed be the hour, Even as a father by an evil child,
When the orient moon of Islam roll'd in triumph From Caucasus to white Ceraunia!
Ruin above, and anarchy below;
Terror without, and treachery within; The chalice of destruction full, and all Thirsting to drink; and who among us dares To dash it from his lips? and where is Hope?
The lamp of our dominion still rides high; One God is God-Mahomet is his Prophet. Four hundred thousand Moslems, from the limits Of utmost Asia irresistibly
Throng, like full clouds at the Sirocco's cry, But not like them to weep their strength in tears; They have destroying lightning, and their step Wakes earthquake, to consume and overwhelm, And reign in ruin. Phrygian Olympus, Tymolus, and Latmos, and Mycale, roughen With horrent arms, and lofty ships, even now, Like vapours anchor'd to a mountain's edge, Freighted with fire and whirlwind, wait at Scala The convoy of the ever-veering wind. Samos is drunk with blood;-the Greek has paid Brief victory with swift loss and long despair. The false Moldavian serfs fled fast and far When the fierce shout of Allah-illa-Allah! Rose like the war-cry of the northern wind, Which kills the sluggish clouds, and leaves a flock Of wild swans struggling with the naked storm. So were the lost Greeks on the Danube's day!
The Greek Patriarch, after having been compelled to fulminate an anathema against the insurgents, was put to death by the Turks. Fortunately the Greeks have been taught that they cannot buy
security by degradation, and the Turks, though equally cruel, are less cunning than the smooth-faced tyrants of Europe.
As to the anathema, his Holiness might as well have thrown his mitre at Mount Athos for any effect that it produced. The chiefs
If night is mute, yet the returning sun Kindles the voices of the morning birds; Nor at thy bidding less exultingly
Than birds rejoicing in the golden day, The anarchies of Africa unleash
Their tempest-winged cities of the sea, To speak in thunder to the rebel world. Like sulphureous clouds half-shatter'd by the storm They sweep the pale Ægean, while the Queen Of Ocean, bound upon her island throne, Far in the west sits mourning that her sons, Who frown on Freedom, spare a smile for thee: Russia still hovers, as an eagle might Within a cloud, near which a kite and crane Hang tangled in inextricable fight, To stoop upon the victor; -for she fears The name of Freedom, even as she hates thine; But recreant Austria loves thee as the grave Loves pestilence, and her slow dogs of war, Flesh'd with the chace, come up from Italy, And howl upon their limits; for they see The panther Freedom fled to her old cover Amid seas and mountains, and a mightier brood Crouch around. What anarch wears a crown or mitre, Or bears the sword, or grasps the key of gold, Whose friends are not thy friends, whose foes thy foes? Our arsenals and our armories are full;
Our forts defy assaults; ten thousand cannon Lie ranged upon the beach, and hour by hour Their earth-convulsing wheels affright the city; The galloping of fiery steeds makes pale
The Christian merchant, and the yellow Jew Hides his hoard deeper in the faithless earth. Like clouds, and like the shadows of the clouds Over the hills of Anatolia,
Swift in wide troops the Tartar chivalry Sweep; the far-flashing of their starry lances Reverberates the dying light of day.
We have one God, one King, one Hope, one Law, But many-headed Insurrection stands Divided in itself, and soon must fall.
Proud words, when deeds come short, are seasonable: Look, Hassan, on yon crescent moon, emblazon'd Upon that shatter'd flag of fiery cloud Which leads the rear of the departing day, Wan emblem of an empire fading now! See how it trembles in the blood-red air, And like a mighty lamp whose oil is spent, Shrinks on the horizon's edge, while, from above, One star with insolent and victorious light Hovers above its fall, and with keen beams, Like arrows through a fainting antelope, Strikes its weak form to death.
Shall we be not renew'd!
Far other bark than ours were needed now
To stem the torrent of descending time: The spirit that lifts the slave before its lord Stalks through the capitals of armed kings, And spreads his ensign in the wilderness;
of the Greeks are almost all men of comprehension and enlightened Exults in chains; and when the rebel falls,
views on religion and politics.
Cries like the blood of Abel from the dust;
And the inheritors of earth, like beasts When earthquake is unleash'd, with idiot fear Cower in their kingly dens-as I do now. What were Defeat, when Victory must appal? Or Danger, when Security looks pale? How said the messenger-who from the fort Islanded in the Danube, saw the battle Of Bucharest?-that-
Drew with its gleam swift victory from heaven, To burn before him in the night of battle- A light and a destruction.
The Arnaut, Servian, and Albanian allies,
Fled from the glance of our artillery Almost before the thunder-stone alit;
One half the Grecian army made a bridge
Of safe and slow retreat, with Moslem dead; The other
By victor myriads, form'd in hollow square With rough and stedfast front, and thrice flung back The deluge of our foaming cavalry; Thrice their keen wedge of battle pierced our lines. Our baffled army trembled like one man
Before a host, and gave them space; but soon, From the surrounding hills, the batteries blazed, Kneading them down with fire and iron rain. Yet none approach'd; till, like a field of corn Under the hook of the swart sickle-man,
The bands intrench'd in mounds of Turkish dead Grew weak and few. Then said the Pacha, «Slaves, Render yourselves! They have abandon'd you- What hope of refuge, or retreat, or aid? We grant your lives. Grant that which is thine own, Cried one, and fell upon his sword and died! Another God, and man, and hope abandon me; But I to them and to myself remain Constant;>>-he bow'd his head, and his heart burst. A third exclaim'd, There is a refuge, tyrant, Where thou darest not pursue, and canst not harm, Shouldst thou pursue; there we shall meet again.. Then held his breath, and, after a brief spasm, The indignant spirit cast its mortal garment Among the slain-dead earth upon the earth! So these survivors, each by different ways, Some strange, all sudden, none dishonourable, Met in triumphant death; and when our army, Closed in, while yet in wonder, and awe, and shame, Held back the base hyenas of the battle That feed upon the dead and fly the living, One rose out of the chaos of the slain;
And if it were a corpse which some dread spirit Of the old saviours of the land we rule Had lifted in its anger, wandering by; Or if there burn'd within the dying man Unquenchable disdain of death, and faith Creating what it feign'd;-I cannot tell,
But he cried, « Phantoms of the free, we come! Armies of the eternal, ye who strike
To dust the citadels of sanguine kings,
And shake the souls throned on their stony hearts, And thaw their frost-work diadems like dew!- O ye who float around this clime, and weave The garment of the glory which it wears, Whose fame, though earth betray the dust it clasp'd, Lies sepulchred in monumental thought! Progenitors of all that yet is great, Ascribe to your bright senate, O accept In your high ministrations, us, your sons- Us first, and the more glorious yet to come! And ye, weak conquerors! giants who look pale When the crush'd worm rebels beneath your tread- The vultures, and the dogs, your pensioners tame, Are overgorged; but, like oppressors, still They crave the relic of destruction's feast. The exhalations and the thirsty winds
Are sick with blood; the dew is foul with death- Heaven's light is quench'd in slaughter: Thus where'er Upon your camps, cities, or towers, or fleets, The obscene birds the reeking remnants cast
Of these dead limbs upon your streams and mountains, Upon your fields, your gardens, and your house-tops, Where'er the winds shall creep, or the clouds fly, Or the dews fall, or the angry sun look down With poison'd light-Famine, and Pestilence, And Panic, shall wage war upon our side! Nature from all her boundaries is moved Against ye: Time has found ye light as foam. The Earth rebels; and Good and Evil stake Their empire o'er the unborn world of men On this one cast-but ere the die be thrown, The renovated genius of our race, Proud umpire of the impious game, descends A seraph-winged Victory, bestriding The tempest of the Omnipotence of God, Which sweeps all things to their appointed doom, And you to Oblivion!»-More he would have said, But-
First through the hail of our artillery The agile Hydriote barks with press of sail Dash'd:-ship to ship, cannon to cannon, man To man were grappled in the embrace of war, Inextricable but by death or victory. The tempest of the raging fight convulsed To its crystalline depths that stainless sea, And shook heaven's roof of golden morning clouds Poised on an hundred azure mountain-isles. In the brief trances of the artillery,
One cry from the destroy'd and the destroyer Rose, and a cloud of desolation wrapt The unforeseen event, till the north wind Sprung from the sea, lifting the heavy veil Of battle-smoke-then victory-victory! For, as we thought, three frigates from Algiers Bore down from Naxos to our aid, but soon The abhorr'd cross glimmer'd behind, before, Among, around us; and that fatal sign
That Christian hound, the Muscovite ambassador, Has left the city. If the rebel fleet Had anchor'd in the port, had victory Crown'd the Greek legions in the hippodrome, Panic were tamer.-Obedience and mutiny, Like giants in contention planet-struck, Stand gazing on each other. There is peace In Stamboul.-
Is the grave not calmer still?
The tiger leagues not with the stag at bay Against the hunter. Cunning, base, and cruel, He crouches, watching till the spoil be won, And must be paid for his reserve in blood. After the war is fought, yield the sleek Russian That which thou canst not keep, his deserved portion Of blood, which shall not flow through streets and fields Rivers and seas, like that which we may win, But stagnate in the veins of Christian slaves!
Enter SECOND MESSENGER.
SECOND MESSENGER.
Nauplia, Tripolizzi, Mothon, Athens, Navarin, Artas, Mowenbasia, Corinth and Thebes are carried by assault; And every Islamite who made his dogs Fat with the flesh of Galilean slaves,
Pass'd at the edge of the sword: the lust of blood Which made our warriors drunk, is quench'd in death▸ But like a fiery plague breaks out anew,
In deeds which makes the Christian cause look pale In its own light. The garrison of Patras Has store but for ten days, nor is there hope But from the Briton: at once slave and tyrant, His wishes still are weaker than his fears; Or he would sell what faith may yet remain From the oaths broke in Genoa and in Norway: And if you buy him not, your treasury
And every countenance blank. Some ships lay feeding Is empty even of promises-his own coin.
Dried with its beams the strength of Moslem hearts, As the sun drinks the dew. - What more? We fled! Our noonday path over the sanguine foam Was beacon'd, and the glare struck the sun pale By our consuming transports: the fierce light Made all the shadows of our sails blood-red,
The ravening fire even to the water's level:
The freeman of a western poet chief'
Some were blown up: some, settling heavily,
Holds Attica with seven thousand rebels,
Sunk; and the shrieks of our companions died
And has beat back the Pacha of Negropont;
Upon the wind, that bore us fast and far,
The aged Ali sits in Yanina,
Even after they were dead. Nine thousand perish'd!
We met the vultures legion'd in the air,
Stemming the torrent of the tainted wind:
A crownless metaphor of empire; His name, that shadow of his wither'd might, Holds our besieging army like a spell
They, screaming from their cloudy mountain peak
In prey to famine, pest, and mutiny:
Stoop'd through the sulphureous battle-smoke, and He, bastion'd in his citadel, looks forth
Joyless upon the sapphire lake that mirrors The ruins of the city where he reign'd Childless and sceptreless. The Greek has reap'd The costly harvest his own blood matured,
A Greek who had been Lord Byron's servant commanded the insurgents in Attica. This Greek, Lord Byron informs me, though a poet and an enthusiastic patriot, gave him rather the idea of a timid and unenterprising person. It appears that circumstances make men what they are, and that we all contain the germ of a degree of degradation or of greatness, whose connexion with our character is determined by events.
Not the sower, Ali-who has bought a truce From Ypsilanti with ten camel loads Of Indian gold.
Enter a THIRD MESSENGER.
MAHMUD.
What more?
THIRD MESSENGER.
Of Lebanon and the Syrian wilderness Are in revolt;-Damascus, Hems, Aleppo, Tremble;-the Arab menaces Medina; The Ethiop has intrench'd himself in Sennaar, And keeps the Egyptian rebel well employ'd : Who denies homage, claims investiture As price of tardy aid. Persia demands The cities on the Tigris, and the Georgians Refuse their living tribute. Crete and Cyprus, Like mountain-twins that from each other's veins Catch the volcano-fire and earthquake spasm, Shake in the general fever. Through the city, Like birds before a storm the santons shriek, And prophecyings horrible and new
Are heard among the crowd; that sea of men Sleeps on the wrecks it made, breathless and still. A Dervise, learn'd in the koran, preaches That it is written how the sins of Islam
Must raise up a destroyer even now.
The Greeks expect a Saviour from the west, 1 Who shall not come, men say, in clouds and glory, But in the omnipresence of that spirit
In which all live and are. Ominous signs Are blazon'd broadly on the noon-day sky; One saw a red cross stamp'd upon the sun; It has rain'd blood; and monstrous births declare The secret wrath of Nature and her Lord. The army encamp'd upon the Cydaris Was roused last night by the alarm of battle, And saw two hosts conflicting in the air,- The shadows doubtless of the unborn time, Cast on the mirror of the night. While yet The fight hung balanced, there arose a storm Which swept the phantoms from among the stars. At the third watch the spirit of the plague Was heard abroad flapping among the tents: Those who relieved watch found the sentinels dead. The last news from the camp is, that a thousand Have sicken'd, and-
Enter a FOURTH MESSENGER.
And thou, pale ghost, dim shadow
Of some untimely rumour, speak!
FOURTH MESSENGER.
Fainting with toil, cover'd with foam and blood; He stood, he says, upon Clelonites Promontory, which o'erlooks the isles that groan Under the Briton's frown, and all their waters Then trembling in the splendour of the moon, When as the wandering clouds unveil'd or hid Her boundless light, he saw two adverse fleets Stalk through the night in the horizon's glimmer,
It is reported that this Messiah bad arrived at a sea-port near Lacedaemon in an American brig. The association of names and ideas is irresistibly ludicrous, but the prevalence of such a rumour strongly marks the state of popular enthusiasm in Greece.
Mingling fierce thunders and sulphureous gleams, And smoke which strangled every infant wind That soothed the silver clouds through the deep air. At length the battle slept, but the Sirocco Awoke, and drove his flock of thunder-clouds Over the sea-horizon, blotting out
All objects-save that in the faint moon-glimpse He saw, or dream'd he saw the Turkish admiral And two the loftiest of our ships of war, With the bright image of that queen of heaven, Who hid, perhaps, her face for grief, reversed; And the abhorred cross-
Citadels and marts, and they
Who live and die there, have been ours,
And may be thine, and must decay; But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity; Her citizens' imperial spirits
Rule the present from the past; On all this world of men inherits Their seal is set.
In sacred Athens, near the fane Of Wisdom, Pity's altar stood; Serve not the unknown God in vain, But pay that broken shrine again Love for hate, and tears for blood.
Enter MAHMUD and AHASUERUS. MAHMUD.
Thou art a man, thou sagest, even as we
But raised above thy fellow-men
By thought, as I by power.
Thou art an adept in the difficult lore
Of Greek and Frank philosophy; thou numberest The flowers, and thou measurest the stars;
Thou severest element from element;
Thy spirit is present in the past, and sees
The birth of this old world through all its cycles Of desolation and of loveliness;
And when man was not, and how man became The monarch and the slave of this low sphere, And all its narrow circles-it is much. I honour thee, and would be what thou art Were I not what I am; but the unborn hour, Cradled in fear and hope, conflicting storms, Who shall unveil? Nor thou, nor I, nor any Mighty or wise. I apprehend not What thou hast taught me, but I now perceive That thou art no interpreter of dreams; Thou dost not own that art, device, or God, Can make the future present-let it come! Moreover, thou disdainest us and ours: Thou art as God, whom thou contemplatest.
Disdain thee?-not the worm beneath my feet! The Fathomless has care for meaner things Than thou canst dream, and has made pride for those Who would be what they may not, or would seem That which they are not. Sultan! talk no more Of thee and me, the future and the past; But look on that which cannot change the one The unborn, and undying. Earth and ocean, Space, and the isles of life or light that gem The sapphire floods of interstellar air, This firmament pavilion'd upon chaos, With all its cressets of immortal fire, Whose outwalls, bastion'd impregnably Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them As Calpe the Atlantic clouds-this whole
Of suns, and worlds, and men, and beasts, and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings By which they have been, are, or cease to be, Is but a vision;-all that it inherits
Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams; Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less The future and the past are idle shadows Of thought's eternal flight-they have no being; Nought is but that it feels itself to be.
What meanest thou? thy words stream like a tempest Of dazzling mist within my brain-they shake
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