LXXVI.
Turn thou to mark (tho' tears may dim thy gaze)
The steel-clad group before yon altar-stone;
Heed not, tho' gems and gold around it blaze,
Those heads unhelm'd, those kneeling forms alone,
Thus bow'd, look glorious here. The light is thrown
Full from the shrine on one, a nation's lord,
A sufferer!—but his task shall soon be done—
E'en now, as Faith's mysterious cup is pour'd,
LXXVII.
The rite is o'er. The band of brethren part,
Once—and but once—to meet on earth again!
Each, in the strength of a collected heart,
To dare what man may dare—and know 'tis vain!
The rite is o'er: and thou, majestic fane!
The glory is departed from thy brow!
Be clothed with dust!—the Christian's farewell strain
Hath died within thy walls; thy Cross must bow;
