To cheer the minstrel’s lot,
And glory’s crown of amaranth,
Whose purple fadeth not.
Winds drive the vessel nearer,
And well their wrath she braves—
“Ho, watchman! swells her canvas
A white cloud o’er the waves?
“Thy visions, bard, are perished,
Thy golden hopes have fled—
Those sails are sails of mourning,