Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/46

LXXVIII.

The streets grow still and lonely—and the star,
The last bright lingerer in the path of morn,
Gleams faint; and in the very lap of war,
As if young Hope with Twilight's ray were born,
Awhile the city sleeps:—her throngs, o'erworn
With fears and watchings, to their homes retire;
Nor is the balmy air of dayspring torn
With battle-sounds^17[1]; the winds in sighs expire,

And Quiet broods in mists, that veil the sunbeam's fire.

LXXIX.

The city sleeps!—aye! on the combat's eve,
And by the scaffold's brink, and midst the swell
Of angry seas, hath Nature won reprieve
Thus, from her cares. The brave have slumber'd well,
And e'en the fearful, in their dungeon-cell,
Chain'd between Life and Death!—Such rest be thine,
For conflicts wait thee still!—Yet who can tell
In that brief hour, how much of Heaven may shine

Full on thy spirit's dream?—Sleep, weary Constantine!