And, well-advisedly, on perfumes spent them
To burn, or flowers to strew, before your path
—How, when the golden flood of music and bliss
Ebbed, as their moon retreated, and again
Left the sharp black-point rocks of misery bare
—Then I, their friend, had only to suggest
"Saw she the horror as she saw the pomp!"
And as one man they cried, "He speaks the truth:
Show her the horror! Take from our own mouths
Our wrongs and show them, she will see them too!"