LXXIX.
The city sleeps! Ay! on the combat’s eve,
And by the scaffold’s brink, and midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
Thus from her cares. The brave have slumber’d well,
And e’en the fearful, in their dungeon cell,
Chain’d between life and death. Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still!—yet who can tell,
In that brief hour, how much of heaven may shine
Full on thy spirit’s dream!—Sleep, weary Constantine!