Classic Poem

PART II.

I .

THE EMPEROR MAKES A PROCLAMATION .

O N all the walls and gateways of the town
Of great Byzantium, passing up and down,
Men read this placard:

“ IN THE EMPEROR'S NAME .

Great, gracious, just, and clement! let his fame
Endure, whom may God bless and keep! Amen.
People!

It is notorious to all men
That one Alexius, son of Isaac (late
Emperor of the East; whom, by just fate
And the high hand of Heaven dethroned, our grace
And clemency, ill-merited, did place
In safety, suffering him to live) hath stirr'd
By treasonable act and trait'rous word
Against our state a barbarous armament
Of Latins, chiefly out of Venice sent
And France; pretexting in the misused name
Of Christendom, by them deceived, the same
High cause which our own arms have heretofore
Not slightly served, in famous fields of yore.
Now therefore, having called about our throne
Our loyal liegemen, we to all make known
That we have set our price upon the head
(Six, if alive, three thousand, byzants, dead)
Of this Alexius Angelus, self-styled
Prince and Augustus, falsely, since exiled
And forfeit of his life, and titles all.
By order of our Lord Imperial
and Paramount, his servant,
M UZUFER .”

And after this, the city was astir
With rumours; and, from ramparts, wharves, and streets
Wild whisperers watched the coming of the fleets.

II .

AND RECEIVES THE AMBASSADORS .

When the Ambassadors of Venice, France,
And the Allied Crusade, bearing the lance
And lion of St. Mark, the gonfalon
O' the Holy See, the sword, and habergeon,
And mace of Charlemagne, with heralds came
Before the Emperor, and the amber flame
Of the great Oriental sunlight flow'd
Thro' the long-galleried hall, and hotly glow'd
About the pillar'd walls with purple bright,
They were at first as men whom too much light
Staggers, and blinds; so much the inopinate
Magnificence and splendour of his state
Amazed them.
At the Emperor's right hand,
Tracing upon the floor with snaky wand
Strange shapes, was standing his astrologer
And mystic, Ishmael the son of Shur,
A swarthy, lean, and melancholy man,
With eyes in caverns, an Arabian,
Who seem'd to notice nothing, save his own
Strange writing on the floor before the throne.
At the Emperor's feet, half-naked, and half-robed
With rivulets of emeroldes, that throbb'd
Green fire as her rich breathings billow'd all
Their thrill'd and glittering drops, crouch'd Jezraäl,
The fair Egyptian, with strange-colour'd eyes
Full of fierce change and somnolent surprise.
She, with upslanted shoulder leaning couch'd
On one smooth elbow, sphynx-like, calm, and crouch'd,
Tho' motionless, yet seem'd to move,—its slim
Fine slope so glidingly each glossy limb
Curved on the marble, melting out and in
Her gemmy tunic, downward to her thin
Clear ankles, ankleted with dull pale gold.
Thick gushing thro' a jewell'd hoop, down roll'd,
All round her, rivers of dark slumbrous hair,
Sweeping her burnisht breast, sharp-slanted, bare,
And sallow shoulder. This was the last slave
The Emperor loved. No sea-nymph in a cave
Ever more indolently dreaming lay,
Lull'd by low surges on a summer's day.
The midnight theft of some Bohemian witch,
Stolen from a Moslem mother, when the rich
Turk camps in Carmel fled before the cross
That lured the remnant left by Barbaross
To Suabia's Duke, was Jezraäl. Four black dwarves
Like toads, green-turban'd, and in scarlet scarves,
The four familiars of the fair witch-queen,
With fans of ostrich feathers, dipt in sheen
Arabian dyes and redden'd at the rims,
Stood round her, winnowing cool her coilèd limbs.
And, behind these, on either side the throne,
Stand two tame jackals to Apollyon:
One, in his right, across his shoulder props
An axe, and from his left a loose cord drops,
And he is nameless, and his trade is death.
The other, whose silk vest flows loose beneath
The small enamell'd dagger at his hip,
Smiles, with a restless finger at the lip;
Sleek, subtle, beauteous, bloodless minister
Of evil; and men call him Muzufer;
And when he smiles the people are afraid,
And hide themselves. And smiling is his trade.
The Ambassadors of the Red-cross'd Allies
Spake to the Emperor upon this wise,
“The supreme Pontiff of the Holy See
Of Rome, in concert with the sovereign, free
Republic of St. Mark, the Chevisance,
And gentlemen of Germany and France
In arms,—by us, Charles, Count of Aquitaine,
Eberhard, lord of Traun, and Castelain
Of the Imperial fortress of Pavia,
Lorenzo Gradenigo, Giammarìa
Francesco Gritti, Jacopo Pisani,
And Giambattista Ercole Grimani,
Noble Venetians,—to Alexius, styled
And titled, falsely, Emperor, who despoil'd
His brother of the purple and high place
Of power, to him allotted by God's grace:
—Render to Cæsar what is Cæsar's own,
And unto God good deeds: restore the throne,
By thee usurp'd with sacrilegious sword,
To Isaac, thine hereditary lord
And master: and so live, forgiven of men
And God. But if thou dost not this, know then
Thou art accurst, and anathematized.”
The Egyptian lifted her large eyes, surprised,
And laugh'd. The scarlet-clad huge-handed man
That stood behind, with axe and cord, began,
Under a snarling lip, to gnash white teeth.
The other monster, half out of its sheath
Lifted his dagger, with the self-same smile
Wherewith he had been listening all this while.
The Emperor glanced at Jezraäl, and said,
“Yon young French Envoy hath a comely head.
Answer him, girl.”
The glittering witch leap'd up
With a shrill laugh, and seized a golden cup,
And shook her sparkling tunic to green flame,
And, hand on haunch, made answer.

“In the name
Of Satan, and the Powers that be! Who saith
To Life, ‘Live not; give up thy place to Death?’
Who calleth to the Sun, ‘Come down: make way
For Darkness?’ Who demandeth of the Day
To give his golden palace to the Night?
Life answers ‘Fool! I live.’ And, saith the Light,
‘Thou fool! I shine.’ Who cannot keep his throne
May lose it: while he hath it, 'tis his own.
And, were I Emperor, I would answer ‘Lo!
Upon all hills that rise, all waves that flow,
And on the lives and souls of men, is cast
The shadow of my purple. Heaven is vast,
And Hell is deep. And God, if God there be,
Doth hide Himself, to leave this world to me.
Mankind is my tame dog; and, knowing it,
Fawns on me; on whose collar there is writ
Sum Cæsaris . The world is but a wheel
That draws my chariot. I hold fast my heel
Upon the neck of my cringed vassal, Time.
Fear is my slave: my household creature, Crime.
The Lords of Hell are my retainers. When
I frown or smile, all valour dies in men,
Virtue in women: men and women are mine,
Body and soul; their blood is in my wine.
The lion croucheth on my palace floors:
And Life and Death are suppliants in my doors.
The bolted thunder hangeth on my walls,
And, lo ye, when I nod the thunder falls!’”

“The thunder hangeth in the hand of God.”
Lorenzo cried; “and falleth at His nod.
See ye, from yonder golden pole, that props
The baldachin his burnisht barb o'ertops,
The many-coloured silken streamers fall?
The same hand, from the same silk, fashion'd all,
Nor hath the stuff with purple tinct imprest
Essential value more than all the rest.
Great Cæsar with his fortunes to admit
Death opes his doors no wider by a whit,
Than for the beggar buried in a ditch.
The dust is brother to the dust. Seeing which,
And that alone the actions of the just
Are lords forever, and defy the dust,
Repent! spread sackcloth on thy former sin.
For, by the Living Lord that listeneth in
The everlasting silences on high,
I swear—beneath the patience of the sky,
Beneath yon gorgeous canopy, beneath
Yon golden roof, tho' incensed by the breath
Of prostituted slaves like this, and throned
In pomp, and girt with power, and crown'd, and zoned
With the imperial purple of the East,
Alexius is a miscreant, and a beast.
And God shall say to him, as to that other
Whom he resembles, ‘Cain, where is thy brother?’
But thou, dread degradation of the form
Of woman,—what art thou, strange glittering worm?
What public mother, to what sire unknown.
Spawn'd thee, shamed creature of a shameless throne,
That dost with insult answer Christendom?”
 The Egyptian sprang, then stood death-white. A hum
As of a hornet's nest, all round the hall,
Responded to her gesture, augural
Of wrath. She stood, a sorceress brewing storm:
The jewels crackled on her stiffening form:
Her wild unholy eyes flash'd hate: the breath,
Drawn sharply in, hiss'd thro' her sparkling teeth
Close clench'd. But her rude lord, with laughter rough,
Waved to her a careless hand, and call'd “Enough!
Crouch.” And she crouch'd: then, like a beaten child,
Whimper'd upon the marble. Drily smiled
The Emperor; and to Muzufer he said,
“The old Venice Envoy hath a reverend head,
Answer thou him.” But he, “Great Lord, I have
Not any knowledge nor experience, save
(What much, I doubt, delights not these grave Sers)
A little, of the various characters
Of wines and women. Nor indeed have I
Enough of latinized theology
To answer, text for text, this reverend man.”

The Emperor laugh'd. “Speak thou, Arabian,
That knowest all things.” Then the Arab said:

“Nebuchadnezzar reign'd: and he is dead.
When Babylon was mistress of the world,
He was the lord of Babylon. Death furl'd
His face in dark: and him the world forgot.
Greek Alexander reign'd: his bones do rot.
This little earth was smaller than his state,
He held it in his hand. Men call'd him Great.
At last God blew his life out like a spark,
And he became a darkness in the dark.
To Alaric the eagle gave his wing,
His claw the lion, and the snake her sting.
His clarions, blown upon the seven hill tops,
Shook the round globe. Grasses the wild goat crops
Grow over him. A little sickness made
Of all he was nothing but dust and shade.
Attila reign'd. The strong Huns worshipp'd him.
All mankind fear'd him. He was great and grim.
Rome grovell'd at his feet. One night he ceased.
The worms upon his flesh have held high feast.
Behind the host of suns and stars, behind
The rushing of the chariots of the wind,
Behind all noises and all shapes of things,
And men, and deeds, behind the blaze of kings,
Princes and paladins and potentates,
An immense solitary Spectre waits.
It has no shape: it has no sound: it has
No place: it has no time: it is, and was,
And will be: it is never more, nor less,
Nor glad, nor sad. Its name is Nothingness.
Power walketh high: and Misery doth crawl:
And the clepsydra drips: and the sands fall
Down in the hourglass: and the shadows sweep
Around the dial: and men wake, and sleep,
Live, strive, regret, forget, and love, and hate,
And know it not. This spectre saith,‘I wait.’
And at the last it beckons, and they pass.
And still the red sands fall within the glass:
And still the shades around the dial sweep:
And still the water-clock doth drip and weep:
And this is all.”

“Yea,” said the Emperor, “then
If thus it fare with the world's mighty men,
And there be no more greatness in the dust,
How fares it with the men the world calls just,
Who lived not for the body but the mind,
Augustin, Plato, Socrates?”

“Behind
The mingled multitude of mortal deeds
Call'd good or ill, behind all codes and creeds,
All terrors, all desires, all hopes, all fears,
Behind all laughter, and behind all tears,”
The Arabian said, “this shapeless Spectre waits.
And no man knoweth what it meditates.”

Frowning, he turn'd, and fashion'd as before,
With snaky wand, upon the porphyry floor
Strange figures, cube, and pentagram, and sphere.
The Emperor mused; then murmur'd in the ear
Of Muzufer some word, whereto replied
That minister, “Let your Majesty decide.
Yet I have heard what Emperors decree
Heaven doth approve; whereby it seems to me
This maxim may be broadly understood,
That for the good o' the state all means are good.”

Thereat the Emperor rose; and from his face
Suddenly all its smiling ceased,—gave place
Forthwith to hate too deadly for disguise;
As when thro' sultry seeming-empty skies
Suddenly rushes, wrapt in glare and gloom,
The blood-red darkness of the strong simoom.
With lips that labour'd 'neath the weight and strain
Of wrath, he cried,
“You—Sir of Acquitaine,
You—Sir of Traun—whose title we ignore,
Whose master styles himself an Emperor,
And is . . . . a puny Suabian Duke! You,—all,
Of Venice—whose nobility we call,
Like its new banner and filch'd patron both,
Of doubtful origin, and upstart growth!
This is our answer to your host, and you:
—Come ye as peaceful pilgrims, to pursue
A pious journey to Jerusalem?
Then, nor your course we check, nor zeal condemn;
Then, market free, and passage fair, expect;
Our wealth shall aid you, and our power protect.
But come ye here, in hostile arms array'd,
The sanctuary of Empire to invade?
Then,—mark me! as live … as I that speak
An Emperor both of Roman and of Greek,
(Mark me!) I swear—and swear it by the line
Of God-like Cæsars all since Constantine,
—Your myriads, were they ten times what they be,
Our scorn shall sweep from land, and sweep from sea,
As easily as yon light fan could sweep
A swarm of midges from the unvext sleep
Of our dark-eyelash'd leman. And, in pledge
Of power to smite,—not less than we allege,—
Our answer prompt to your barbarian crew
Shall be your heads … the head of each of you!
Yours—Sir of Acquitaine! yours—Sir of Traun!
Fresh trophies for each gate of yonder town!
And yours—Venetian! … yours! and yours! and yours!
Ho, in the gallery, there! Bar all the doors.
No foot budge hence till we be satisfied!”
“Disloyal lord! … Enough!” Lorenzo cried.
“For us,—our response shall, in thunder-falls,
Be heard anon round yonder doomèd walls,
And rain'd in blood—less innocent than ours,
Ay, and less pure!—round yonder trait'rous towers.
For thee,—mock emperor, true barbarian!
Whose image, stamp'd in the alloy of man,
Sullies the wealth that buys obedience base
To Treason trembling on a throne,—disgrace
Would be grace wasted. But hark … ye, his slaves!
Who falls on us must fall on iron staves.
'Ware, the first traitor here, that lifts his hand!
Christ and His cause about this banner stand.
For every hair upon our heads, a host
In arms, for Justice wrong'd, shall claim the cost.
'Ware, the first slave that stands across our path
To yonder door! This wingèd lion hath
—(For God, the giver of all strength to men,
Shall smite the smiter now, Who smote him then)
The self-same strength between the wings, of him
That once, between the wingèd Cherubim,
In Ashdod smote usurping Dagon down,
And shatter'd in the dust his idol crown,
Before the captived but triumphant Ark.
Now,—God defend the Right, and good St. Mark!”

Forthwith outfurl'd, in resonant circle shone
Round those eight knights the rustling gonfalon.
And, thro' a hundred hands with hired swords
To murder purchased, march'd the Red Cross Lords
Majestic, unmolested, down the hall,
Strode thro' the startled Guards Imperial,
And from the treacherous threshold pass'd in scorn.
Alexius, with white lips, and garment torn,
Scream'd, “Cowards! slaves! Is Cæsar disobey'd?
Traitors? a hundred byzants for each head
Of those eight churls! Up, bloodhounds! or the whip
Shall mend the mongrel valour that lets slip
An Emperor's quarry!”
But the Eight meanwhile,
Spurring full speed, had pass'd the embattled pile
Of the great gate. Foil'd, as they forward sprang,
Down in the gap the shrill portcullis rang.