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THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
XLII.
Last night a sound was in the Moslem camp,
And Asia's hills re-echoed to a cry:
Of savage mirth!—Wild horn, and war-steeds' tramp,
Blent with the shout of barbarous revelry,
The clash of desert-spears! Last night the sky
A hue of menace and of wrath put on,
Caught from red watch-fires, blazing far and high,
And countless, as the flames, in ages gone,
XLIII.
But all is stillness now. May this be sleep
Which wraps those eastern thousands? Yes, perchance
Along yon moonlight shore and dark-blue deep,
Bright are their visions with the Houri's glance,
And they behold the sparkling fountains dance
Beneath the bowers of paradise, that shed
Rich odours o'er the faithful; but the lance,
The bow, the spear, now round the slumberers spread,
