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, The requiem of a faith’s departing sway, A throne’s, a nation’s dirge, a wail for earth’s decay.