LXXXVII.

Oh, happy in their homes, the noble dead! The seal is set on their majestic fame; Earth has drunk deep the generous blood they shed, Fate has no power to dim their stainless name! _They_ may not, in one bitter moment, shame Long glorious years. From many a lofty stem Fall graceful flowers, and eagle hearts grow tame, 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 Confronts all this, and still brave hearts beat high, While scimitars ring loud on shivering panoply.