Chapter 10

So spake the Son, and into terror changed His countenance too severe to be beheld, And full of wrath bent on his enemies. At once the four spread out their starry wings With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs Of his fierce chariot rolled, as with the sound Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. He on his impious foes right onward drove, Gloomy as night: under his burning wheels The steadfast empyrean shook throughout. All but the throne itself of God. Full soon Among them he arrived; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in their souls infixèd Plagues: they, astonished, all resistance lost, All courage; down their idle weapons dropt; O'er shields, and helms, and helmèd heads he rode Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostráte, That wished the mountains now might be again Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire. Nor less on either side tempestuous fell His arrows, from the fourfold-visaged Four Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels Distinct alike with multitude of eyes; One spirit in them ruled; and every eye Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire Among the accursed, that withered all their strength, And of their wonted vigor left them drained, Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. Yet half his strength he put not forth, but checked His thunder in mid volley; for he meant Not to destroy, but root them out of heaven: The overthrown he raised, and as a herd Of goats or timorous flock together thronged, Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursued With terrors and with furies, to the bounds And crystal wall of heaven; which, opening wide, Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed Into the wasteful deep: the monstrous sight Struck them with horror backward, but far worse Urged them behind: headlong themselves they threw Down from the verge of heaven; eternal wrath Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.

MILTON.

* * * * *

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

FROM "HEBREW MELODIES."

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale. With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

LORD BYRON.

* * * * *

THE SCHOOL OF WAR.

FROM "TAMBURLAINE."

TAMBURLAINE.--But now, my boys, leave off and list to me, That mean to teach you rudiments of war: I'll have you learn to sleep upon the ground, March in your armor through watery fens, Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold, Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war, And after this to scale a castle wall, Besiege a fort, to undermine a town, And make whole cities caper in the air. Then next the way to fortify your men: In champion grounds, what figure serves you best, For which the quinque-angle form is meet, Because the corners there may fall more flat Whereas the fort may fittest be assailed, And sharpest where the assault is desperate. The ditches must be deep; the counterscarps Narrow and steep; the walls made high and broad; The bulwarks and the rampires large and strong, With cavalieros and thick counterforts, And room within to lodge six thousand men. It must have privy ditches, countermines, And secret issuings to defend the ditch; It must have high argins and covered ways, To keep the bulwark fronts from battery, And parapets to hide the musketers; Casemates to place the great artillery; And store of ordnance, that from every flank May scour the outward curtains of the fort, Dismount the cannon of the adverse part, Murder the foe, and save the walls from breach. When this is learned for service on the land, By plain and easy demonstration I'll teach you how to make the water mount, That you may dry-foot march through lakes and pools, Deep rivers, havens, creeks, and little seas, And make a fortress in the raging waves, Fenced with the concave of monstrous rock, Invincible by nature of the place. When this is done then are ye soldiers, And worthy sons of Tamburlaine the Great.

CALYPHAS.--My lord, but this is dangerous to be done: We may be slain or wounded ere we learn.

TAMBURLAINE.--Villain! Art thou the son of Tamburlaine, And fear'st to die, or with a curtle-axe To hew thy flesh, and make a gaping wound? Hast thou beheld a peal of ordnance strike A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse, Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as Heaven, Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes, And canst thou, coward, stand in fear of death? Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe, Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands, Dyeing their lances with their streaming blood, And yet at night carouse within my tent, Filling their empty veins with airy wine, That, being concocted, turns to crimson blood.-- And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds? View me, thy father, that hath conquered kings, And with his horse marched round about the earth Quite void of scars and clear from any wound, That by the wars lost not a drop of blood,-- And see him lance his flesh to teach you all. (_He cuts his arm._) A wound is nothing, be it ne'er so deep; Blood is the god of war's rich livery, Now look I like a soldier, and this wound As great a grace and majesty to me, As if a chain of gold, enamellèd, Enchased with diamonds, sapphires, rubies, And fairest pearl of wealthy India, Were mounted here under a canopy, And I sate down clothed with a massy robe, That late adorned the Afric potentate, Whom I brought bound unto Damascus' walls. Come, boys, and with your fingers search my wound, And in my blood wash all your hands at once, While I sit smiling to behold the sight. Now, my boys, what think ye of a wound?

CALYPHAS.--I know not what I should think of it; methinks it is a pitiful sight.

CELEBINUS.--'Tis nothing: give me a wound, father.

AMYRAS.--And me another, my lord.

TAMBURLAINE.--Come, sirrah, give me your arm.

CELEBINUS.--Here, father, cut it bravely, as you did your own.

TAMBURLAINE.--It shall suffice thou darest abide a wound: My boy, thou shalt not lose a drop of blood Before we meet the army of the Turk; But then run desperate through the thickest throngs, Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds, and death; And let the burning of Larissa-walls, My speech of war, and this my wound you see, Teach you, my boys, to bear courageous minds, Fit for the followers of great Tamburlaine!

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

* * * * *

CATILINE TO THE ROMAN ARMY.

FROM "CATILINE," ACT V. SC. 2.

Sound all to arms! (_A flourish of trumpets._) Call in the captains,-- (_To an officer_) I would speak with them!

(_The officer goes._)

Now, Hope! away,--and welcome gallant Death! Welcome the clanging shield, the trumpet's yell,-- Welcome the fever of the mounting blood, That makes wounds light, and battle's crimson toil Seem but a sport,--and welcome the cold bed, Where soldiers with their upturned faces lie,-- And welcome wolf's and vulture's hungry throats, That make their sepulchres! We fight to-night.

(_The soldiery enter._)

Centurions! all is ruined! I disdain To hide the truth from you. The die is thrown! And now, let each that wishes for long life Put up his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome. Ye all are free to go. What! no man stirs! Not one! a soldier's spirit in you all? Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes Is womanish,--'twill pass.) My noble hearts! Well have you chosen to die! For, in my mind, The grave is better than o'erburdened life; Better the quick release of glorious wounds, Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues; Better the spear-head quivering in the heart, Than daily struggle against fortune's curse; Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood, To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge In poverty, dull pain, and base decay. Once more, I say,--are ye resolved?

(_The soldiers shout_, "All! All!")

Then, each man to his tent, and take the arms That he would love to die in,--for, _this hour_, We storm the Consul's camp. A last farewell!

(_He takes their hands._)

When next we meet,--we'll have no time to look, How parting clouds a soldier's countenance. Few as we are, we'll rouse them with a peal That shall shake Rome! Now to your cohorts' heads;--the word's--Revenge!

GEORGE CROLY.

* * * * *

CARACTACUS.

Before proud Rome's imperial throne In mind's unconquered mood, As if the triumph were his own, The dauntless captive stood. None, to have seen his free-born air, Had fancied him a captive there.

Though, through the crowded streets of Rome, With slow and stately tread, Far from his own loved island home, That day in triumph led,-- Unbound his head, unbent his knee, Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

A free and fearless glance he cast On temple, arch, and tower, By which the long procession passed Of Rome's victorious power; And somewhat of a scornful smile Upcurled his haughty lip the while.

And now he stood, with brow serene, Where slaves might prostrate fall, Bearing a Briton's manly mien In Cæsar's palace hall; Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek, The liberty e'en there to speak.

Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand The claim that look preferred, But motioned with uplifted hand The suppliant should be heard,-- If he indeed a suppliant were Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd, From Claudius on his throne Down to the meanest slave that bowed At his imperial throne; Silent his fellow-captive's grief As fearless spoke the Island Chief:

"Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome, And master of the world, Though victory's banner o'er thy dome In triumph now is furled, I would address thee as thy slave, But as the bold should greet the brave!

"I might, perchance, could I have deigned To hold a vassal's throne, E'en now in Britain's isle have reigned A king in name alone, Yet holding, as thy meek ally, A monarch's mimic pageantry.

"Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day I might have rode with thee, Not in a captive's base array, But fetterless and free,-- If freedom he could hope to find, Whose bondage is of heart and mind.

"But canst thou marvel that, freeborn, With heart and soul unquelled, Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn, By thy permission held? Or that I should retain my right Till wrested by a conqueror's might?

"Rome, with her palaces and towers, By us unwished, unreft, Her homely huts and woodland bowers To Britain might have left; Worthless to you their wealth must be, But dear to us, for they were free!

"I might have bowed before, but where Had been thy triumph now? To my resolve no yoke to bear Thou ow'st thy laurelled brow; Inglorious victory had been thine, And more inglorious bondage mine.

"Now I have spoken, do thy will; Be life or death my lot, Since Britain's throne no more I fill, To me it matters not. My fame is clear; but on my fate Thy glory or thy shame must wait."

He ceased; from all around upsprung A murmur of applause, For well had truth and freedom's tongue Maintained their holy cause. The conqueror was the captive then; He bade the slave be free again.

BERNARD BARTON.

* * * * *

SEMPRONIUS' SPEECH FOR WAR.

FROM "CATO," ACT II. SC. 1.

My voice is still for war. Gods! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And at the head of our remaining troops Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise! Fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help: Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate Manures the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here deliberating, in cold debate, If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of Pharsalia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud,--"To battle!" Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF LEONIDAS.

It was the wild midnight,-- A storm was on the sky; The lightning gave its light, And the thunder echoed by.

The torrent swept the glen, The ocean lashed the shore; Then rose the Spartan men, To make their bed in gore!

Swift from the deluge ground Three hundred took the shield; Then, silent, gathered round The leader of the field!

He spake no warrior word, He bade no trumpet blow, But the signal thunder roared, And they rushed upon the foe.

The fiery element Showed, with one mighty gleam, Rampart, and flag, and tent, Like the spectres of a dream.

All up the mountain's side, All down the woody vale, All by the rolling tide Waved the Persian banners pale.

And foremost from the pass, Among the slumbering band, Sprang King Leonidas, Like the lightning's living brand.

Then double darkness fell, And the forest ceased its moan; But there came a clash of steel, And a distant dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew, And a fiery sheet burst high, That o'er the midnight threw A blood-red canopy.

A host glared on the hill; A host glared by the bay; But the Greeks rushed onward still, Like leopards in their play.

The air was all a yell, And the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel On the silken turbans came;

And still the Greek rushed on Where the fiery torrent rolled, Till like a rising sun Shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast, His midnight banquet, there; And the treasures of the East Lay beneath the Doric spear.

Then sat to the repast The bravest of the brave! That feast must be their last, That spot must be their grave.

They pledged old Sparta's name In cups of Syrian wine, And the warrior's deathless fame Was sung in strains divine.

They took the rose-wreathed lyres From eunuch and from slave, And taught the languid wires, The sounds that Freedom gave.

But now the morning star Crowned Oeta's twilight brow; And the Persian horn of war From the hills began to blow.

Up rose the glorious rank, To Greece one cup poured high, Then hand in hand they drank, "To immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell, When, like spirits from the tomb, With shout and trumpet knell, He saw the warriors come.

But down swept all his power, With chariot and with charge; Down poured the arrows' shower. Till sank the Dorian's targe.

They gathered round the tent, With all their strength unstrung; To Greece one look they sent, Then on high their torches flung.

The king sat on the throne, His captains by his side, While the flame rushed roaring on, And their Paean loud replied.

Thus fought the Greek of old! Thus will he fight again! Shall not the self-same mould Bring forth the self-same men?

GEORGE CROLY.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

[1821.]

Again to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land,--the first garden of Liberty's-tree,-- Has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free; For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid?--Be the combat our own! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, That, living, we will be victorious, Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not: The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not: Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide, waves engulf, fire consume us; But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves:-- But we've smote them already with fire on the waves. And new triumphs on land are before us;-- To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day--shall ye blush for its story; Or brighten your lives with its glory?-- Our women--oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for, the godlike of earth. Strike home!--and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion! Her inlands, her isles of the ocean, Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring. Our hearts shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,-- When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

MARCO BOZZARIS.

[AT LASPI--ANCIENT PLATAEA--AUGUST 20, 1823.]

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power. In dreams, through camp and court, he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, Then pressed that monarch's throne--a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,-- True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Plataea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far, as they.

An hour passed on, the Turk awoke: That bright dream was his last; He woke--to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke--to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike--till the last armed foe expires; Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land!"

They fought--like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain: They conquered--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death, Come to the mother, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessèd seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet song and dance and wine,-- And thou art terrible; the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought; Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought; Come in her crowning hour,--and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee; there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb. But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch and cottage bed. Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys,-- And even she who gave thee birth,-- Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art freedom's now, and fame's,-- One of the few, the immortal names That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

* * * * *

HARMOSAN.

Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won.

Harmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, Captive, overborn by numbers, they were bringing forth to die.

Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo, I perish in my thirst; Give me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!"