And soft and clear that wavering radiance play'd
O'er sculptured forms, that round the pillar'd scene
Calm and majestic rose, by art array'd
In godlike beauty, awfully serene.
Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined
Round that luxurious board!—in every face,
Some shadow from the tempest of the mind,
Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace,
Though vainly mask'd in smiles which are not mirth,
But the proud spirit's veil thrown o'er the woes of earth.
Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom
May still survive the wearers—and the rose
Perchance may scarce be wither'd, when the tomb
Receives the mighty to its dark repose!
The day must dawn on battle—and may set
In death—but fill the mantling wine-cup high!
Despair is fearless, and the Fates e'en yet
Lend her one hour for parting revelry.
They who the empire of the world possess'd,
Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest.
