THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
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LXIV.
Again, and yet again!—from yon high dome,
Still the slow peal comes awfully; and they
Who never more to rest in mortal home,
Shall throw the breastplate off at fall of day,
Th' imperial band, in close and arm'd array,
As men that from the sword must part no more,
Take through the midnight streets their silent way,
Within their ancient temple to adore,
LXV.
It is the hour of sleep: yet few the eyes,
O'er which forgetfulness her balm hath shed,
In the beleaguer'd city. Stillness lies
With moonlight, o'er the hills and waters spread,
But not the less, with signs and sounds of dread,
The time speeds on. No voice is raised to greet
The last brave Constantine; and yet the tread
Of many steps is in the echoing street,
D 2
