And banish aught resembling woe;
And if a thought intrude, of power
To mar the bright convivial hour,
Still must its influence lurk unseen,
And cloud the heart—but not the mien!
Away, vain dream!—on Otho’s brow,
Still darker lower the shadows now;
Changed are his features, now o’erspread
With the cold paleness of the dead;
Now crimson’d with a hectic dye,