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THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
XXXIV
But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance,
Upon their strife it bend a careless eye,
It is but as the Roman's stoic glance
Fell on that stage where man's last agony
Was made his sport, who, knowing one must die,
Reck'd not which champion; but prepared the strain,
And bound the bloody wreath of victory,
To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain,
XXXV.
The hour of Fate comes on! and it is fraught
With this of Liberty, that now the need
Is past to veil the brow of anxious thought,
And clothe the heart, which still beneath must bleed,
With Hope's fair-seeming drapery. We are freed
From tasks like these by Misery; one alone
Is left the brave, and rest shall be thy meed,
Prince, watcher, wearied one! when thou hast shown
