XXI.

Well might _thy_ name, brave Constantine! awake Such thought, such feeling!--But the scene again Bursts on my vision, as the day-beams break Through the red sulphurous mists: the camp, the plain, The terraced palaces, the dome-capt fane, With its bright cross fix’d high in crowning grace; Spears on the ramparts, galleys on the main, And, circling all with arms, that turban’d race-- The sun, the desert, stamp’d in each dark haughty face.