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To-morrow shall the many-color'd main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!
Wild, as th' autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance
Th' alternate groupes of Joy and Grief advance
Responsive to his varying strains sublime!
Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate.
The Swain, who, lull'd'by Seine's mild murmurs, led
His weary oxen to their nightly shed,
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.
Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary Despot's might,
And haply hurl the Pageant from his height
Unwept to wander in some savage isle.
