XXXVII.

Hush’d is Byzantium--’tis the dead of night-- The closing night of that imperial race![26] And all is vigil--but the eye of light Shall soon unfold, a wilder scene to trace: There is a murmuring stillness on the train Thronging the midnight streets, at morn to die; And to the cross, in fair Sophia’s fane, For the last time is raised Devotion’s eye; And, in his heart while faith’s bright visions rise, There kneels the high-soul’d prince, the summon’d of the skies.