Of burning streets on midnight’s cloud waves red,
And when the silent house receives its guest—the dead.[217]
LXIII.
But to those tones what thrilling soul was given
On that last night of empire! As a spell
Whereby the life-blood to its source is driven,
On the chill’d heart of multitudes they fell.
Each cadence seem’d a prophecy, to tell
Of sceptres passing from their line away,
An angel-watcher’s long and sad farewell,