Which mark that ruin’d leader, and survey
His changeful mien, whence oft the gloom profound
Strange triumph chases haughtily away.
“Fill the bright goblet, warrior guests!” he cries;
“Quaff, ere we part, the generous nectar deep!
Ere sunset gild once more the western skies
Your chief in cold forgetfulness may sleep;
While sounds of revel float o’er shore and sea,
And the red bowl again is crown’d—but not for me.
“Yet weep not thus. The struggle is not o’er,