THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
17
XXVIII.
But strength is from the mightiest! There is one
Still in the breach, and on the rampart seen,
Whose cheek shows paler with each morning sun,
And tells, in silence, how the night hath been,
In kingly halls, a vigil: yet serene,
The ray set deep within his thoughtful eye,
And there is that in his collected mien,
To which the hearts of noble men reply,
XXIX.
Yes! call it not of lofty minds the fate,
To pass o'er earth in brightness, but alone;
High power was made their birthright, to create
A thousand thoughts responsive to their own!
A thousand echoes of their spirit's tone
Start into life, where'er their path may be,
Still following fast; as when the wind hath blown
O'er Indian groves7[1], a wanderer wild and free,
C
