Constantinople, March MCMXV

I         Queen of a double empire still she stands,         And watches with superb indifferent eyes         The eager wooing of Imperial hands         Towards so fair and coveted a prize.         Royal and imperial suitors has she known         Pass one by one across her dreaming years,         And some a while have climbed the golden throne,         And some have passed away in blood and tears;         For many emperors have sought her grace         Since the first Constantine in sweeping cloak         Her seven hills with broad unhurrying pace         Measured, and rested not till Heaven spoke.         A haughty fatalist Byzantium waits         What chance the storing centuries bring forth:         Another lover almost at the gates,         Heralded by the cannon of the North,         A Northern King to wed the Eastern Queen,         An iron clasp to set the shining gem,         Thrice-changed Constantinople to be seen         The Jewel of a Russian diadem!         II         O Saint Sophia, where the footstep falls         Softly beneath the roofs of burnished gold,         Shields of the Caliphs hang upon thy walls,         Brand of bereaved dishonour ages old.         His charger raised on Christian corpses high,         O ravished bride of Christianity!,         Here struck Mahomet's hand as he rode by,         And seared the lustre of the porphyry,         And, interrupted in the sacred feast,         Hearing the advent of the conqueror surge,         Into the wall miraculous the priest         Entered, and waits the summons to emerge.         So on that high and ceremonial day         When Russian Czar and prince, and Christian lord         Throng Saint Sophia in their packed array         To see the church's heritage restored,         When from mosaics re-established saints         Look down once more upon a Christian crowd,         And Echo startles into life, and faints         With rapture at Gregorian chanting loud,         And Mass magnificently moving on         Towards its climax, brings the moment near         After the lapse of many centuries gone         For Christ in priestly hands to reappear,         When the exultant organ's chord has ceased         And every head is bowed expectantly,         Then at the altar the Byzantine priest         Shall hold aloft the Host triumphantly!