Yet riot and luxury brawl within;
Slaves are waiting in crimson and gold,
Waiting the nod of a child of sin.
The fire is crackling, wine is bubbling
Up in each glass to its beaded brim:
The jesters are laughing, the parasites quaffing,
'Happiness,'—'honor,'—and all for him!
"WITHOUT.
"She who is slain in the winter weather,
Ah! she once had a village fame;