XXXVII.
Hush’d is Byzantium—’tis the dead of night—
The closing night of that imperial race![26]
And all is vigil—but the eye of light
Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace:
There is a murmuring stillness on the train
Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die;
And to the cross, in fair Sophia’s fane,
For the last time is raised Devotion’s eye;
And, in his heart while faith’s bright visions rise,
There kneels the high-soul’d prince, the summon’d of the skies.