Thy funeral obsequies nothing are
But trains to grace his conquering car.
Go to thy chamber! wail the doom
That on thyself must one day come.
Gods! shall the Egyptian harlot shame the globe
Who nobly dared to die
Ere tricked in gorgeous robe
She'd grace a Cæsar's pageantry ?
III.
Yes, weep Moyarra! not for thee
That face, now sealed in dim repose,
Shall wake to soothe thy misery
And wean thee from oppressing woes.
Wreathed in the cold embrace of Death
Thy bride from thy fond clasp is torn,
And yielding languidly her breath
She sinks forlorn:
The teeth of pearl, which did surround
The portals of that mine whence sprung
The spells by which thy soul was bound
When thy enchantress sung—
Arrayed in grim defiance, woo
