And lyres were strung, and bright libations pour'd,
When, through the streets, flash'd out th' avenging sword,
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound*[1]!
Through Rome a triumph pass'd.
Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by
That long array of glorious pageantry,
With shout and trumpet-blast.
An empire's gems their starry splendour shed
O'er the proud march; a king in chains was led;
A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last†[2].
And many a Dryad's bower
Had lent the laurels, which, in waving play,
Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way,
As a quick-flashing shower.
—O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung,
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung—
Woe for the dead!—the father's broken flower!
U
