And yet had hearts the struggle to maintain,

And pile another hecatomb of slain.

Yet still they were but men-their limbs grew weak-
The hand scarce served the spirit's wrath to wreak :
But still, they did not idly fall in death;

Nor without one fierce effort yield their breath:
Th' unconquer'd spirit rose, and bore them through
The last dread scene that open'd on their view.
As when the hurricane has sunk to sleep,
The swelling waves still lash the dangerous deep;
The infidels their dying fury felt;

With life's last gasp the deadly blow was dealt;
And when they drooping fell to rise no more,
"Twas on the foe whom they had slain before:
So fierce the contest, and so dire the hate,
That ev'n while lying on the brink of fate,
Expiring hands were feebly raised to smite,
As if unwilling yet to quit the fight.

But numbers must prevail, whate'er oppose-
None can withstand incessant hosts of foes:
The ceaseless torrent wears away the rock,
That spurn'd unmoved the thunder's mightiest shock—
The dogs on India's sultry plain oft' chase
The lordly tiger-fiercest of his race-
Their persevering numbers will at length,
Subdue his courage and o'erpower his strength.
And those proud hearts were falling fast around;
Rivers of blood had flow'd along the ground;
And many a glorious soul had taken flight;
And many a fiery eye was closed in night;
And many a form, that but an hour before

In strength and beauty shone-now moved no more.

From death's fix'd grasp the spear could scarce be wrench'd,

In marble hands the blood-sheath'd sword was clench'd.

And well those heroes had their part sustain'd

Till life's last gasp a hopeless strife maintain'd—

And they were in their rest, who to the last

Had there perform'd their best-their worst was past—'
To them it reck'd not then, if fell, or stood,

The city, in whose cause they shed their blood.

The few who still survived, borne down by force, Yielded to the resistless torrent's course:

Justiniani, wounded, bleeding, fell

Upon the crimson field he fought so well;
And hurried from the scene, left few behind
With a more mighty arm-more warlike mind.
Ah! better had he there received his death,
Aud in the arms of fame resign'd his breath;

Than for a transient interval of life,
Endure to think that he had left the strife;
And wish that he had rather died in fame,
Than live the victim of remorse and shame.
Too often when some leader falls, the rest
Feel sudden doubt and terror seize the breast;
As if his arm alone had all their might;
As if his eye alone could scan the fight-
As if he were the heart-the soul of all-
And left them but the choice to flee or fall:
As though the sun had bade adieu to sight,
And left the world to winter and to night.
So they who fought obedient to his nod,
And almost view'd him as an earthly god,
When they beheld him fall, forsook the field,
As if their hands no more a sword could wield;
And scattering in the panic of despair,
Left the exulting foe triumphant there.

But there was one, who would not brook to fly-
When hope was lost-'twas his resolve to die!
The Emperor with some chosen friends remain'd,
And all the fury of that host sustain'd:

A faithful few, with hearts resolved to share
Whatever doom might wait their monarch there.
Like some few seamen in a shatter'd bark,
When ocean rages, and when Heaven is dark;
Half lost to sight amidst the mountain waves,
And vainly toiling o'er their watery graves-
So strove those few amidst a sea of foes,
That, circling their despair, began to close;
Each moment saw them prest in smaller space;
Each instant fewer left the foe to face;
Till they could scarcely be discern'd among
The crowds they fought so bravely and so long.
As bands of hunters close a herd of deer,
In narrow space, exposed to ball and spear;
When one by one they drop, of life bereft,
Till scarcely one proud antler'd crest is left-
So there the Christians fell, but they who sought,
Their death, with tenfold price the triumph bought.
There Constantine was battling still, although
He saw his best and dearest friends laid low;
Beheld them drop around, as if their breath,
From pois'nous winds, inhaled an instant death;
Till scarcely one of all he loved before,
Lived to return that love, or aid him more.
He seem'd like one contending on the grave,
Fighting amidst the relicks of the brave;

1

Himself the last of that devoted band,
Who perish'd to preserve their native land.
And what bad earth to offer then, to one
So lonely so unsceptred-so undone?
The fear of death was o'er-the wish to live
Was past-for life had nothing more to give!
Death-death was all that he could hope for there;
The only balm for such complete despair.
For every friend who fell, his bosom bled;
He could have hung in sorrow o'er the dead,
If feelings soft enough for tears had room
Within his soul, who fought but for a tomb.
And oh what burning thoughts in that wild hour,
Rush'd through his brain with torturing-maddening power!
The long past glories of his race-the name
He bore the empire's now expiring fame-
His people's fate-each-all beyond control,
With agonizing feelings fill'd his soul!

The
past flash'd on him like a noon of light-
The present whelm'd him in unnatural night!
None-none were left his fainting arm to aid;
And yet by none abandoned nor betrayed-
He seem'd to stand alone, a mark for fate,
The single object of those thousands' hate.
And yet it was not fear that touch'd his heart-
'Twas grief and shame, to which it owed the smart-
Regret to perish by such barbarous foes-

Grief-shame to think the empire there must close.
"Oh! for some Christian sword to give me death!
Some friendly hand," he cried, "to stop my breath-
That such as these should have it not to tell,
That by their hands Rome's latest Emperor fell,
That they had struck her crown of glory down;
And built their glory on her lost renown-
O! for some kindred arm"-the prayer was vain-
They smote-and he was number'd with the slain!
A monarch's duty to the last he proved,
And perish'd fighting for the realm he loved.
He would not live to see his land enslaved,
But death in all it's fiercest terrors braved,
And dearly had he sold his life-his foes
Lay stretch'd around him, partners in its close.
He died a monarch when his reign was done,
As wrapt in tempests gleams the setting sun.

Then from all parts th' exulting foe rush'd in,
And fill'd the city with terrific din;

By nature cruel, and inflamed with ire,

Fierce was their vengeance, and their wrath was dire.

Those streets once peaceful, flourishing, and proud,
Now rang with lamentations deep and loud :
Their demon-passions drench'd them deep in blood,
And every dwelling pour'd its separate flood:
The dead and dying choked the public way;
The aged and the young alike their prey ;-
The lips of youth appeal'd in vain to spare;
The hoary brow was cleaved in fury there:
The hands of infancy were clasp'd in vain,
Nor virgin beauty could their rage restrain.
The blood of childhood bathed it's mother's breast,
Slain on the bosom where 'twas fondly prest-
The mother-kindly spared not but to weep,
Clasp'd it as closely in eternal sleep.

Husbands were slain beside their shrieking wives;
Who bore but little space their widow'd lives:
The bonds of love were sever'd at a blow;
And slaughter'd myriads crown'd the scene of woe.
In their own homes, so late their place of pride,
And virtuous peace, devoted thousands died!
And they who rush'd abroad, in wild despair,
Met, as they fled, as sure destruction there.
A storm of passions-fiercest-blackest-worst-
In fiend-like rage upon that city burst!
Here shouts of wrath-there cries of terror rang-
The rush of multitudes; the iron clang;
The rumbling thunder of unnumber'd feet,
Flying before the foe in vain retreat—

-

The shrieks of children - every fearful sound
That can appal the ear-was echoing round.
With such enfuriate wrath those demons flew
Upon their helpless prey--and smote and slew-
More like a troop of tigers, reft of food,
Plunging at once upon a feast of blood,

Than men or conquerors- fierce as conquerors are—
And little given to pity or to spare.

On a more hideous scene the sun ne'er rose ;
Nor set upon a sight of deeper woes,—
Ne'er shone upon a city's blacker doom,
Nor lighted more in one day to a tomb.

The city seem'd one universal grave,

Where foes no mercy show'd-nor friends could save-
No spot was sacred, and no place was spared,
Who knelt, or fled, alike the carnage shared:
Who in concealment sought escape from death,

Were dragg'd to light, or there resign'd their breath.
Some, bolder, seized whatever arms they could,
And to the last their barbarous foes withstood;

And made those monsters by their death atone;
And fell not unavenged, nor died alone.
The palaces where wealth and beauty reign'd,
The dying forms of princely men sustain'd;
The still-secluded chamber-where a breath
Was scarcely heard-now shook with cries of death!
From room to room the shrieking inmates flew
Hunted by fiends who chased them till they slew.
Pillage and slaughter, cruelty and rage,
That riches could not glut, nor death assuage,
Extended over all ·
-a dreadful doom-

An earthquake scarce had fill'd a wider tomb!
Had Etna pour'd her fiery river there,
It scarce had left a more complete despair.

Three days of horror o'er the city past-
Three nights of woe-increasing to the last-
Days without hope, and nights of safety reft,
Nor thought, nor feeling, save of terror-left.
The nobles by the sword were swept away;
The highest, lowest, mix'd in slaughter lay.
Destruction there had strode in ruthless power,
And whelm'd the toil of ages in an hour;
Levell❜d the pride-the glory, of the past,

And o'er earth's brightest scene such cloud had cast,
As ev❜n till now bath left a shadow there,
To wrap arts, learning, freedom, in despair.

And when the Tyrant in barbaric pride
Enter'd the gates, he saw on every side,
But saw unmoved, the ruin he had wrought;
His ruthless soul had gain'd the prize he sought;
And though his chariot wheels roll'd o'er the dead;
And though the city's pomp and pride were fled ;
It was enough-he reign'd triumphant there,
Monarch of desolation and despair!

What thousand families were steep'd in woe
What myriads died—he did not care to know
Accurs'd ambition had attain'd its aim,
Rivers of blood had wafted one to fame;

And thousands' ruin, groans, and death, conspired
To raise one soul by demon passions fired.
So hath it ever been, and so will be,
That man is man's most deadly enemy.

Rome's last of glory then was, swept from sight-
Her name erased-her arm of giant might
For ever gone from earth, as though the scene
Of her triumphant rule had never been:
As though her tempest-light had never flash'd,
Nor over prostrate thrones her legions dash'd;