Hoary age with locks of snow:

Prince, and peer, and statesman grave,

White-stoled priest, and dark-browed slave,—

Plumed helm, and crowned head,

By one mighty impulse led—

Mingle in the living mass,

That onward to the desert pass!

[Pg 39]

With song and shout and impious glee,

What rush earth's myriads forth to see?

Hark! the sultry air is rent

With their boisterous merriment!

Are they to the vineyards rushing,

Where the grape's rich blood is gushing?

Or hurrying to the bridal rite

Of warrior brave and beauty bright?

Ah no! those heads in mockery crowned,

Those pennons gay with roses bound,

Hie not to a scene of gladness—

Theirs is mirth that ends in madness!

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