Who on this brilliant scene had dwelt, And paused to think, but must have felt As Xerxes, when he wept to see } That mighty, moving throng, whom he } Had marshalled on to destiny, } This crowd of young, and blithe, and fair, Smiled on by Death—but not to spare? To his wan eye, the gilded room Is but a thickly peopled tomb; To him the years are but a day, That pass, and all have gone their way, Or, touched by Time with finger cold, Are frail, and spectral to behold: He laughs at every polished brow, And floating tress, and neck of snow, And cheek that shames the rarest rose, And lips that rows of pearl disclose; And forms from Beauty’s faultless mould, So softly fair or proudly bold, That seraphs, from their amaranth bowers, Might envy shapes this earth of ours Yields from its dust;—and while he quaffs His wine of tears, the Spoiler laughs, Too soon that shadowy wand to wave, Which sweeps the revellers to the grave! But O! how few e’er pause to think, While Pleasure’s cup, filled to the brink, Lures them to taste—and idly gay, Their brief existence sport away; Until, perchance, some dear one dies, Then falls the bandage from their eyes That hid the dread truth from their gaze, And, terror-struck, in wild amaze They learn that nought of man’s endeavour Can change the doom—“Ye part for ever!” For ever?—No—in realms on high, If the heart’s instinct prove no lie ... But pause—nor trench on themes divine, Unmeet for such light lay as mine. [Illustration: _The Declaration_ _MARK YONDER YOUTH ON WHOSE FOND ARM LEANS ONE ENRICHED WITH EVERY CHARM_ ]