XCVII.

But thou! that on thy ramparts proudly dying, As a crown’d leader in such hours should die, Upon thy pyre of shiver’d spears art lying, With the heavens o’er thee for a canopy, And banners for thy shroud! No tear, no sigh, Shall mingle with thy dirge; for thou art now Beyond vicissitude! Lo! rear’d on high, The Crescent blazes, while the Cross must bow-- But where no change can reach, there, Constantine, art thou!