And stars drop, fading from the diadem;
But the bright past is theirs—there is no change for them!
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