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THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
I.
The fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died;
—Shout, for the City of the Constantines,
The rising City of the billow-side,
The City of the Cross!—great Ocean's bride,
Crown'd from her birth she sprung!—Long ages pass'd,
And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide,
Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,
B 2
