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A glittering train the eye may trace,
Like champions gay, with crimson vest,
And golden helm, and saffron crest,
Who lift the lance with gesture light,
And hasten to the bloodless fight.
Then rise a few, in purple robe,
Like kings to rule this rolling globe,
In solemn state, with massy shield,
And sceptre all in shades conceal'd:
But close involv'd in deeper gloom,
And thick'ning, gathering, as they come,
A sable train with aspect dread,
Like warring hosts with muffled tread
Approach, and cast with angry sweep,
Their fearful shadow o'er the deep.
Beneath their frown, these glories fade,
And all the scene is wrapt in shade,
For aged night, with envious eye,
Beheld the joyous revelry,
And sent that veil'd and hostile train,
To shroud it with the hue of pain.
But gleaming o'er the mountain's breast,
Just where its summit meets the west,
A little spot of light is seen,
All fair, and tranquil, and serene;
So pure, that no rude cloud may dare
To cast its slightest image there:
