Keen son of trade, with eager brow,
Who is now fluttering in thy snare,
Thy golden fortunes tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?
Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleams again?
To sorrow o’er the untimely dead?
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?
Some, famine struck, shall think how long
The cold, dark hours, how slow the light;