LXXXIX.

Where art thou, Constantine?--where Christian blood Hath bathed the walls in torrents, and in vain! Where faith and valour perish in the flood, Whose billows, rising o’er their bosoms, gain Dark strength each moment; where the gallant slain Around the banner of the Cross lie strew’d Thick as the vine-leaves on th’ autumnal plain; Where all, save one high spirit, is subdued, And through the breach press on th’ o’erwhelming multitude.