THE LAST CONSTANTINE.

Thou strivest nobly,

When hearts of sterner stuff perhaps had sunk :

And o'er thy fall, if it be so decreed,

Good men will mourn, and brave men will shed tears.

Fame I look not for,

But to sustain, in Heaven's all seeing eye,
Before my fellow men, in mine own sight,

With graceful virtue and becoming pride,

The dignity and honour of a man,
Thus station'd as I am, I will do all
That man may do.

Miss Baillie's Constantine Palæologus.

B

THE LAST CONSTANTINE.

I.

THE fires grew pale on Rome's deserted shrines,
In the dim grot the Pythia's voice had died;
-Shout, for the City of the Constantines,
The rising City of the billow-side,

The City of the Cross!-great Ocean's bride,
Crown'd from her birth she sprung!-Long ages pass'd,

And still she look'd in glory o'er the tide,

Which at her feet barbaric riches cast,

Pour'd by the burning East, all joyously and fast.

II.

Long ages pass'd!–they left her porphyry halls
Still trod by kingly footsteps. Gems and gold
Broider'd her mantle, and her castled walls

Frown'd in their strength; yet there were signs which told
The days were full. The pure high faith of old
Was changed; and on her silken couch of sleep

She lay, and murmur'd if a rose-leaf's fold

Disturb'd her dreams; and call'd her slaves to keep

Their watch, that no rude sound might reach her o'er the

deep.

III.

But there are sounds that from the regal dwelling

Free hearts and fearless only may exclude; "Tis not alone the wind at midnight swelling, Breaks on the soft repose, by Luxury woo'd! There are unbidden footsteps, which intrude Where the lamps glitter, and the wine-cup flows, And darker hues have stain'd the marble, strew'd With the fresh myrtle, and the short-lived rose, And Parian walls have rung to the dread march of foes.