And He who sleeps not heard the elated throng,
In mirth that plays with thunderbolts, defy
The Rock of Zion! Fill the nectar high,
High in the cups of consecrated gold!
And crown the bowl with garlands, ere they die,
And bid the censers of the temple hold
Offerings to Babel’s gods, the mighty ones of old!
Peace!—is it but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadow’d forth, the senses to appall,
Yon fearful vision? Who shall gaze again