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THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
LXII.
Again, and yet again! —A startling power
In sounds like these lives ever; for they bear,
Full on remembrance, each eventful hour,
Chequering life's crowded path. They fill the air
When conquerors pass, and fearful cities wear
A mien like joy's; and when young brides are led
From their paternal homes; and when the glare
Of burning streets, on midnight's cloud, waves red,
LXIII.
But to those tones what thrilling soul was given,
On that last night of empire!—As a spell
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven,
On the chill'd heart of multitudes they fell.
Each cadence seem'd a prophecy, to tell
Of sceptres passing from their line away,
An angel-watcher's long and sad farewell,
The requiem of a faith's departing sway,
