Had but obscured the glory that it shed.
Unshaken in his high prophetic seat,
Beyond all crowns of vict’ry grand and great
In happier days, as when, illusions fled,
His fierce foes found him lying ’mid his dead,
Alike his spirit soared secure from Fate.
So, when the charging battle standards meet,
Gold fringe and silken fold are plucked away
As by the myriad beaks of birds of prey,
Still on the staff, high in his ancient seat,