XCVII.
But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying,
As a crown’d leader in such hours should die,
Upon thy pyre of shiver’d spears art lying,
With the heavens o’er thee for a canopy,
And banners for thy shroud! No tear, no sigh,
Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now
Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high,
The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow—
But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!