And with sad brilliancy it shone.
Both saw the sons, with anxious brow,
Of milder realms approaching nigh,
Beneath this all-consuming sky:
With their pale sceptres touched, they bow,
And in the fatal grave are now.
But their reign o’er, on outspread wing,
To purify the poison’d air,
The north winds cold and moisture bear;
Across our fields they sounding spring,