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THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
XXX.
And it is thus with thee! thy lot is cast
On evil days, thou Cæsar! yet the few
That set their generous bosoms to the blast
Which rocks thy throne—the fearless and the true,
Bear hearts wherein thy glance can still renew
The free devotion of the years gone by,
When from bright dreams th' ascendant Roman drew
Enduring strength!—states vanish—ages fly—
XXXI.
These are our nature's heritage. But thou,
The crown'd with empire! thou wert call'd to share
A cup more bitter. On thy fever'd brow
The semblance of that buoyant hope to wear,
Which long had pass'd away; alone to bear
The rush and pressure of dark thoughts, that came
As a strong billow in their weight of care;
And, with all this, to smile! for earth-born frame,
