My spirit all wrapt in the past as a dream!
Mine ear hath no joy in the voice of the singer,[168]
Mine eye sparkles not to the sunlight’s glad beam;
Yet, yet I live on, though forsaken and weeping!
—O grave! why refuse to the aged thy bed,
When valour’s high heart on thy bosom is sleeping,
When youth’s glorious flower is gone down to the dead!
Fair were ye, my sons! and all kingly your bearing,
As on to the fields of your glory ye trode!
Each prince of my race the bright golden chain wearing,