THE LAST CONSTANTINE.
5
IV.
A voice of multitudes is on the breeze,
Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm's roar,
Through Ida's giant-pines! Across the seas
A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore
From Tempè's haunted river to the shore
Of the reed-crown'd Eurotas; when, of old,
Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o'er
Th' indignant wave which would not be controll'd,
V.
And it is thus again!—Swift oars are dashing
The parted waters, and a light is cast
On their white foam-wreaths, from the sudden flashing
Of Tartar spears, whose ranks are thickening fast.
There swells a savage trumpet on the blast,
A music of the deserts, wild and deep,
Wakening strange echoes, as the shores are past
Where low midst Ilion's dust her conquerors sleep,
