THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
39
LXXII.
But all is silence; and a gush of tears
Alone replies!—He hath not been of those
Who, fear'd by many, pine in secret fears
Of all; th' environ'd but by slaves and foes,
To whom day brings not safety, night repose,
For they have heard the voice cry "Sleep no more!"
Of them he hath not been, nor such, as close
Their hearts to misery, till the time is o'er,
LXXIII.
He hath been loved—but who may trust the love
Of a degenerate race?—in other mould
Are cast the free and lofty hearts, that prove
Their faith through fiery trials.—Yet behold,
And call him not forsaken!—Thoughts untold
Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread
Moves firmly to the shrine.—What pomps unfold
Within its precincts!—Isles and seas have shed
