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firmament a vault, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more, for I have
stepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I meet appears a corse,
which will soon be deserted of its animating spark, on the eve of decay and
corruption.
Cada piedra un piramide levanta,
y cada flor costruye un monumento,
cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo,
cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."[1]
His accent was mournful,--he sighed deeply. "A few months ago," he
continued, "I was thought to be dying; but life was strong within me. My
affections were human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life. Now--
they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel faith are about
to be encircled by triumphant laurel; they talk of honourable reward, of
title, power, and wealth--all I ask of Greece is a grave. Let them raise
a mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when the dome of St.
Sophia has fallen.
"Wherefore do I feel thus? At Rodosto I was full of hope; but when first I
saw Constantinople, that feeling, with every other joyful one, departed.
The last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of my death. Yet I
do not pretend to account for my mood by any particular event. All I can
say is, that it is so. The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps I
have imbibed its effluvia--perhaps disease is the real cause of my
prognostications. It matters little why or wherefore I am affected, no
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