Bend o’er the lists the darkly-radiant eye:
Silence and gloom her palaces o’erspread,
And song is hush’d, and pageantry is fled.
—Weep, fated city! o’er thy heroes weep—
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep!
Furl’d are their banners in the lonely hall,
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the wall,
Wildly their chargers range the pastures o’er—
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more.
And they, who still thy tyrant’s wrath survive,