6 THE GRAVE
And every smirking feature from the face ;
Branding our laughter with the oaine of mad-
ness.
Where are the jesters now J the men of health
Complexionally pleasant ? Where the droll,
Whose very look and gesture was a^oke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made e'en thick-lipp'd rousing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile
Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now.
And dumb as the green turf that corera them !
Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war, -T^
The Roman Cxsare and the Grecian chiefs,
The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd
youth,
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore
From kings of all the then disco«r'd globe ;
And cried, forsooth, because his arm was ham-
per'd,
And had not room enough to do it's work ?
Alas, how slim — dishonourably slim 1 —
And cramm'd into a space we blush to name —
Proud royalty ! How alter'd in thy looks !
How blank thy features, and how wan thy ,
Son of the morning ! whither art thou gone i
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes.
