But whilst they gaze as mourners broken-hearted,
They wrap them in thy royal robe of red;
They steal thy golden crown from off thy head—
Ay, pluck thy locks and soil thy silver sheen!
The heavens with bonfires the glad tidings spread,
“Sol is no more, and Cynthia is queen!”
Earth shouts “Glad tidings!” happy at the scene.
Glad tidings? Yes, the sun was merciless—
He withered flowers—he parched the prairie plain!
With Galileo many now confess