Note 11, page 186, col. 1.

Those men are strangers here.

Many of the adherents of Constantine, in his last noble stand for the liberties, or rather the honour, of a falling empire, were foreigners and chiefly Italians.

Note 12, page 186, col. 2.

Knowest thou the land, &c.

This and the next line are an almost literal translation from a beautiful song of Goethe's:

Kennst du das land, wo die zitronen blühn
Mit dunkeln laub die gold orangen glühn? &c.

Note 13, page 186, col. 2.

The idea expressed in this stanza is beautifully amplified in Schiller's poem "Das Lied der Glocke."

Note 14, page 187, col. 1.

Hath the fierce phantom, &c. It is said to be a Greek superstition that the plague is announced by the heavy rolling of an invisible chariot, heard in the streets at midnight; and also by the appearance of a gigantic spectre, who summons the devoted person by name.

Note 15, page 187, col. 2.

-Ye smiled on banquets of despair, &c. Many instances of such banquets, given and shared by persons resolved upon death, might be adduced from ancient history. That of Vibius Virius, at Capua, is amongst the most memorable.

Note 16, page 188, col. 1.

-Yon dome, the lode-star of all eyes.

For a minute description of the marbles, jaspers, and porphyries, employed in the construction of St. Sophia, see The Decline and Fall, &c. vol. vii.

P. 120.

Note 17, page 188, col. 2.

Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn

With battle-sounds, &c.

The assault of the city took place at day-break,| and the Turks were strictly enjoined to advance in silence, which had also been commanded, on pain of death, during the preceding night. This circumstance is finely alluded to by Miss Baillie, in her tragedy of Constantine Palæologus:

"Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor trump,
Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe
Our near approach betray: silent and soft,
As the pard's velvet foot on Lybia's sands,

Slow stealing with crouched shoulders on her prey."
Constantine Palæologus, Act iv.

|mours, which reached the ears of the watchmen on the towers."

Note 18, page 189, col. 1.

The dark-browed ranks are risen.

"After a conflict of two hours, the Greeks still maintained and preserved their advantage," says Gibbon. The strenuous exertions of the janizaries first turned the fortune of the day.

Note 19. page 189, col. 2.

From the Greek fire shoots up, &c.

"A circumstance that distinguishes the siege of Constantinople is the reunion of the ancient and modern artillery. The bullet and the batteringram were directed against the same wall; nor had the discovery of gunpowder superseded the use of the liquid and unextinguishable fire."-Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 213.

Note 20, page 189, col. 2.

And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa's fallen son! "The immediate loss of Constantinople may be ascribed to the bullet, or arrow, which pierced the gauntlet of John Justiniani (a Genoese chief). The sight of his blood, and exquisite pain, appalled the courage of the chief, whose arms and counsels were the firmest rampart of the city."Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 229.

Note 21, page 190, col. 2.

The owl upon Afrasiab's towers hath sung
Her watch-song, &c.

Mahomet II., on entering, after his victory, the palace of the Byzantine emperors, was strongly impressed with the silence and desolation which reigned within its precincts. A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself on his mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry: "The spider has wove his web in the imperial palace, and the owl hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiab.'"-Decline and Fall, &c., vol. xii. p. 240.

I.

THE STORM OF DELPHI.

FAR through the Delphian shades
An Eastern trumpet rung!

And the startled eagle rushed on high,
With 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 a flame,

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!
'T was not the shadow cast

By the dark pine-boughs as they passed the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;
--The air was filled with a mightier sway,

-But on the spearmen passed!

And hollow to their tread,

Came the echoes of the ground,

And banners drooped, as with dews o'erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn
Had an altered cadence, dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.

-But they blew a louder strain,

When the steep defiles were passed!
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose,

To shine through heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!

In golden light it stood,

'Midst the laurels gleaming lone,

See the account cited from Herodotus, in Mitford's Greece.

For the Sun-God yet, with a lovely smile, O'er its graceful pillars looked awhile, Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood Grew deep, round its mountain-throne.

And the Persians gave a shout! But the marble-walls replied, With a clash of steel, and a sullen roar Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, And a savage trumpet's note pealed out, Till their hearts for terror died!

On the armour of the God, Then a viewless hand was laid; There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, And corslet brought from the shrine within, From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, And before its front arrayed.

And a sudden silence fell
Through the dim and loaded air!
On the wild bird's wing, and the myrtle-spray,
And the very founts, in their silvery way,
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.

But the pause was broken soon!
"T was not by song or lyre;

For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers,
But there burst a sound through the misty noon,
That battle-noon of fire!

It burst from earth and heaven!
It rolled from crag and cloud!

For a moment of the mountain-blast,
With a thousand stormy voices passed,
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder pealed aloud.

And the lightnings in their play
Flashed forth, like javelins thrown;

Like sun-darts winged from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow,
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray
And the banners were struck down!

And the massy oak-boughs crashed
To the fire-bolts from on high,
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,

And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.

Then rushed the Delphian men On the pale and scattered host; Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, They rushed from the dim Corycian cave, And the singing blast o'er wood and glen

Rolled on, with the spears they tossed.

There were cries of wild dismay,

There were shouts of warrior-glee, There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, That shook the realm of their eagle-birth; But the mount of song, when they died away,

Still rose, with its temple, free!

And the Pean swelled ere long,

Io Paan! from the fane;

lo Paan! for the war-array,

On the crowned Parnassus riven that day! -Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song!

With thy bounding streams again.

II.

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.*

BEFORE the fiery sun,

The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,|
In the free air, and on the war-field won,
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood,

The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies, And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They called the glorious dead,

In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And poured rich odours o'er their battle-bed,
And bade them to the rite of Liberty.

They called them from the shades, The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell How softer light th' immortal clime pervades, And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel.

Then fast the bright red winet

Flowed to their names who taught the world to die, And made the land's green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.

*This and the following piece appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine

1 For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in

So the rejoicing earth Took from her vines again the blood she gave, And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth From the free soil thus hallowed to the brave.

We have the battle-fields,

The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, We have the founts the purple vintage yields; -When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty!

III.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A VOICE from Scio's isle,

A voice of song, a voice of old,
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled,
And earth was hushed the while.

The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among,
That voice of Victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore
Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain,
Swept from the rivers to the main,

A glorious tale it bore.

Still, by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crowned! And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio's isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again!
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where'er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given
To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes? -From ruined hearths, from burning fanes, From kindred blood on yon red plains,

From desolated homes!

'Tis with us through the night! 'Tis on our hills, 't is in our sky

O'er the mid-waves of fight!

IV.

THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.

"The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging step was made to the 'Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the pur."-Campbell on the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.

'T was morn upon the Grecian hills, Where peasants dressed the vines, Sunlight was on Citharon's rills, Arcadia's rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers, Eurotas wandered by,

When a sound arose from Sparta's towers Of solemn harmony.

Was it the hunters' choral strain

To the woodland-goddess poured? Did virgin-hands in Pallas' fane

Strike the full-sounding chord?

But helms were glancing on the stream,

Spears ranged in close array, And shields flung back a glorious beam To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain-echoes of the land

Swelled through the deep blue sky, While to soft strains moved forth a band Of men that moved to die.

They marched not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out,
And the laurel groves, as on they passed,
Rung with no battle-shout!

They asked no clarion's voice to fire

Their souls with an impulse high; But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes, their path around,
Sent forth Eolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!

Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.

So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,

Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!

V.

THE URN AND SWORD.

THEY sought for treasures in the tomb,
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.*

They scattered far the greensward-heap,

Where once those hands the bright wine poured, -What found they in the home of sleep?

-A mouldering urn, a shivered sword!

An urn, which held the dust of one

Who died when hearths and shrines were free;
A sword, whose work was proudly done,
Between our mountains and the sca.
And these are treasures!-undismayed,
Still for the suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid,
With freedom's sword, and valor's dust.

VI.

THE MYRTLE-BOUGH.
STILL green along our sunny shore
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offered on the graves;
The graves, wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet's mirth,

And free the minstrel's hand;

And guests, with shining myrtle crowned,-
Sent the wreathed lyre and wine-cup round

Still green! as when on holy ground

The tyrant's blood was poured: -Forget ye not what garlands bound The young deliverer's sword! -Though earth may shroud Harmodius now, We still have sword and myrtle-bough!

• See Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii. p. 234.