Is echoing through the royal hall,
And banners wave and trophies shine
O’er stately guests in glittering line;
And Otho seeks awhile to chase
The thoughts he never can erase,
And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep
Rise like a spirit on his sleep—
The still small voice of conscience—die,
Lost in the din of revelry.
On his pale brow dejection lowers,