XCIV.

’Tis eve--the storm hath died, the valiant rest Low on their shields; the days fierce work is done, And blood-stain’d seas and burning towers attest Its fearful deeds. An empire’s race is run! Sad, midst his glory, looks the parting sun Upon the captive city. Hark! a swell (Meet to proclaim barbaric war-fields won) Of fierce triumphal sounds, that wildly tell The Soldan comes within the Cæsars’ halls to dwell!