And the stern courage by such musings lent,
Daughter of Afric! o'er thy beauty throws
The grandeur of a regal spirit, blent
With all the majesty of mighty woes!
While he, so fondly, fatally adored,
Thy fallen Roman, gazes on thee yet,
Till scarce the soul, that once exulting soar'd,
Can deem the day-star of its glory set;
Scarce his charm'd heart believes that power can be
In sovereign fate, o'er him, thus fondly loved by thee.
But there is sadness in the eyes around,
Which mark that ruin'd leader, and survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound,
Strange triumph chases haughtily away.
"Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!" he cries,
"Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies,
Your chief, in cold forgetfulness, may sleep,
While sounds of revel float o'er shore and sea,
And the red bowl again is crown'd—but not for me.
