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!
XCVIII.
“After life’s fitful fever thou sleep’st well!”
We may not mourn thee! Sceptred chiefs, from whom
The earth received her destiny, and fell
Before them trembling—to a sterner doom
Have oft been call’d. For them the dungeon’s gloom,
With its cold starless midnight, hath been made