48
THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
XC.
Now is he battling midst a host alone,
As the last cedar stems awhile the sway
Of mountain-storms, whose fury hath o'erthrown
Its forest-brethren in their green array!
And he hath cast his purple robe away,
With its imperial bearings; that his sword
An iron ransom from the chain may pay,
And win, what haply Fate may yet accord,
XCI.
Search for him now, where bloodiest lie the files
Which once were men, the faithful and the brave!
Search for him now, where loftiest rise the piles
Of shatter'd helms and shields, which could not save;
And crests and banners, never more to wave
In the free winds of heaven!—He is of those
O'er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave,
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,
