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Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war?
The Roman Cæsars, and the Græcian Chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd youth?
Who the Tiara at his pleasure tore
From Kings of all the then discover'd globe;
And cry'd, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd,
And had not room enough to do its work?
Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim,
And cram'd into a space we blush to name!
Proud Royalty! how alter'd in thy looks!
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue.
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?
Where hast thou bid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar? Plaint and powerless now,
Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes,
Or victim tumbled flat upon its back,
That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife.
Mute, must thou bear the strife of little tongues,
And coward insults of the base-born croud;
That grudge a privilege, thou never hadst,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful Grave,
Of being unmolested and alone.
Arabit's gums and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the heralds duly paid
In mode and form, ev'r to a very scruple;
Oh cruel Irony! these come too late;
And only mock, whom they were meant to honour.
Surely there's not a dungeon-slave, that's bury'd
In the high-way, unshrouded and uncoffin'd,
But lies as soft, and sleeps as sounds as he.
Sorry pre-eminence of high descent
Above the vulgar born, to rot in state!

But see! the well-plum'd Herse comes nodding on
Stately and slow; and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,