The voice of thousands floated up, with the horn and cymbal’s tone;
But his heart, midst that proud music, felt more utterly alone.
And he cried, “Thou art mine, fair city! thou city of the sea!
But, oh! what portion of delight is mine at last in thee?—
I am lonely midst thy palaces, while the glad waves past them roll,
And the soft breath of thine orange bowers is mournful to my soul.
“My brother! O my brother! thou art gone—the true and brave,
And the haughty joy of victory hath died upon thy grave.
There are many round my throne to stand, and to march where I lead on;
There was one to love me in the world—my brother! thou art gone!