Byzantium Falls

On this day in 1453, the great and holy city of Constantinople fell to the Turks and the Christian Roman Empire came to its apocalyptic end. This was a thousand years after the conversion of the Empire to Christ, almost fifteen centuries after the fall of the Republic, and 2,206 years after the foundation of Rome.

This event, long in coming and long foretold, should be remembered with sorrow and longing. To this end, I include below the Lamentatio sanctae matris ecclesiae Constantinopolitanæ , which is the “Lament of the Holy Mother Church of Constantinople”.

It is taken and adapted from the Book of Lamentations.

Nothing, not even eternal Rome, lasts forever. Every empire is ephemeral, and we would do well to remember this in our current age. As a wise saint once said,

Kingdoms and empires have passed away; peoples once renowned for their history and civilization have disappeared; time and again the nations, as though overwhelmed by the weight of years, have fallen asunder; while the Church, indefectible in her essence, united by ties indissoluble with her heavenly Spouse, is here today radiant with eternal youth, strong with the same primitive vigor with which she came from the Heart of Christ dead upon the Cross.

(Pope Saint Pius X, Encyclical Iucunda Sane)

Today, as I often am upon this date, I am reminded of Yeats.

Sailing to Byzantium

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

(W.B.Yeats)