Woe for the dead!—the father’s broken flower!
A sound of lyre and song,
In the still night, went floating o’er the Nile,
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile,
Swept with that voice along;
And lamps were shining o’er the red wine’s foam
Where a chief revell’d in a monarch’s dome,
And fresh rose-garlands deck’d a glittering throng.
’Twas Antony that bade
The joyous chords ring out! But strains arose