LXVI.
Their homes are luxury’s yet; why pour they thence
With a dim terror in each restless eye?
Hath the dread car which bears the pestilence,
In darkness, with its heavy wheels roll’d by,
And rock’d their palaces, as if on high
The whirlwind pass’d? From couch and joyous board
Hath the fierce phantom beckon’d them to die![218]
—No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour’d
More dark with wrath,—man comes—the spoiler and the sword.