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THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
XCIV.
'Tis eve—the storm hath died—the valiant rest
Low on their shields; the day's fierce work is done,
And blood-stain'd seas and burning towers attest
Its fearful deeds. An empire's race is run!
Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun
Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell
(Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won)
Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell,
XCV.
Yes! with the peal of cymbal and of gong,
He comes,—the Moslem treads those ancient halls!
But all is stillness there, as Death had long
Been lord alone within those gorgeous walls.
And half that silence of the grave appals
The conqueror's heart. Aye, thus with Triumph's hour,
Still comes the boding whisper, which recalls
A thought of those impervious clouds that low'r
