LXVI.
Their homes are luxury's yet: why pour they thence
With a dim terror in each restless eye?
Hath the dread car, which bears the pestilence,
In darkness, with its heavy wheels, roll'd by,
And rock'd their palaces, as if on high
The whirlwind pass'd?—From couch and joyous board
Hath the fierce phantom beckon'd them to die?
—No!—what are these?—for them a cup is pour'd14[1]
LXVII.
Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass
Through those pale throngs, the streaming torchlight throws
On some wild form, amidst the living mass,
Hues, deeply red, like lava's, which disclose
What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes!
Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp'd in prayer,
Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows
Betokening inward agonies, were there:
