I see its sables wove by destiny;
And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame;
While howling furies wring the doleful knell;
And Conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear 54
Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.
Where, the prime actors of the last year’s scene;
Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume?
How many sleep, who kept the world awake
With lustre, and with noise! has Death proclaim’d
A truce, and hung his sated lance on high?