LXXXVIII.

Where art thou, Constantine?—where death is reaping

His sevenfold harvest!—where the stormy light,

Fast as th’ artillery’s thunderbolts are sweeping,

Throws meteor-bursts o’er battle’s noonday-night!

Where the towers rock and crumble from their height,

As to the earthquake, and the engines ply

Like red Vesuvio; and where human might

Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high,

While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.