"Yet weep not thus—the struggle is not o'er,
O victors of Philippi! many a field
Hath yielded palms to us:—one effort more,
By one stern conflict must our doom be seal'd!
Forget not, Romans! o'er a subject world
How royally your eagle's wing hath spread,
Though from his eyrie of dominion hurl'd,
Now bursts the tempest on his crested head!
Yet sovereign still, if banish'd from the sky,
The sun's indignant bird, he must not droop—but die."
The feast is o'er. 'Tis night, the dead of night—
Unbroken stillness broods o'er earth and deep;
From Egypt's heaven of soft and starry light
The moon looks cloudless o'er a world of sleep:
For those who wait the morn's awakening beams,
The battle signal to decide their doom,
Have sunk to feverish rest and troubled dreams;
Rest, that shall soon be calmer in the tomb,
Dreams, dark and ominous, but there to cease,
When sleep the lords of war in solitude and peace.
