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Yes, Osmir; I shall wear a conqu'ror's name, And other ages shall of Mah'met speak, When these dumb slaves are crumbling in the dust. But now the night wears on, and with the dawn Must the grand work begin. Yet one thing still remains; I must remind thee That to my gen'ral orders this be added:— Silent shall be the march: nor drum, nor trump, Nor clash of arms, shall to the watchful foe Our near approach betray: silent and soft, As the pard's velvet foot on Libya's sands, Slow stealing with crouch'd shoulders on her prey.

I have already given the strictest orders.

Then all is well: go where thy duty calls. In the mean while I will snatch an hour of rest, And dream, perhaps, that lovely Grecian dames, Even with a crowned beauty in their band, Are lowly bent to kiss my purple feet. (A distant bell heard from the city.) What deep and distant bell is this which sounds So solemnly on the still air of night?

It comes from St. Sophia's lofty dome, Where Constantine, with his small band of friends,