Hath died within these walls; thy Cross must bow,
Thy kingly tombs be spoil’d, the golden shrines laid low!
LXXVIII.
The streets grow still and lonely—and the star,
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn,
Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,
As if young Hope with twilight’s ray were born,
Awhile the city sleeps: her throngs, o’erworn
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire.
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn