I.
Mark’d ye the mingling of the city’s throng,
Each mien, each glance, with expectation bright?
Prepare the pageant and the choral song,
The pealing chimes, the blaze of festal light!
And hark! what rumour’s gathering sound is nigh?
Is it the voice of joy, that murmur deep?
Away! be hush’d, ye sounds of revelry!
Back to your homes, ye multitudes, to weep!
Weep! for the storm hath o’er us darkly pass’d,
And England’s royal flower is broken by the blast!