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XXXVI.

Alas for thee, fair Greece! when Asia pour'd
Her fierce fanatics to Byzantium's wall,
When Europe sheathed, in apathy, her sword,
And heard unmoved the fated city's call,
No bold crusaders ranged their serried line
Of spears and banners round a falling throne;
And thou, O last and noblest Constantine!^14[1]
Didst meet the storm unshrinking and alone.
Oh! blest to die in freedom, though in vain,

Thine empire's proud exchange the grave, and not the chain.

XXXVII.

Hush'd is Byzantium—'tis the dead of night—
The closing night of that imperial race!^15[2]
And all is vigil—but the eye of light
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace:
There is a murmuring stillness on the train,
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die;
And to the cross, in fair Sophia's fane,
For the last time is raised Devotion's eye;
And, in his heart while faith's bright visions rise,

There kneels the high-soul'd prince, the summon'd of the skies.

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