“Here, where each creeping day the creeping file Draws past with shouldered comrades score on score, Bearing them to their lightless last asile, Where weary wave-wails from the clammy shore Will reach their ears no more. “We might have fought, and had we died, died well, Even if in dynasts' discords not our own; Our death-spot some sad haunter might have shown, Some tongue have asked our sires or sons to tell The tale of how we fell; “But such be chanced not. Like the mist we fade, No lustrous lines engrave in story we, Our country's chiefs, for their own fames afraid, Will leave our names and fates by this pale sea, To perish silently!” SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Why must ye echo as mechanic mimes These mortal minion's bootless cadences, Played on the stops of their anatomy As is the mewling music on the strings Of yonder ship-masts by the unweeting wind, Or the frail tune upon this withering sedge That holds its papery blades against the gale? --Men pass to dark corruption, at the best, Ere I can count five score: these why not now?-- The Immanent Shaper builds Its beings so Whether ye sigh their sighs with them or no! The night fog enwraps the isle and the dying English army. ACT FIFTH SCENE I PARIS. A BALLROOM IN THE HOUSE OF CAMBACERES [The many-candled saloon at the ARCH-CHANCELLOR'S is visible through a draped opening, and a crowd of masked dancers in fantastic costumes revolve, sway, and intermingle to the music that proceeds from an alcove at the further end of the same apartment. The front of the scene is a withdrawing-room of smaller size, now vacant, save for the presence of one sombre figure, that of NAPOLEON, seated and apparently watching the moving masquerade.] SPIRIT OF THE PITIES Napoleon even now embraces not From stress of state affairs, which hold him grave Through revels that might win the King of Spleen To toe a measure! I would speak with him. SPIRIT OF THE YEARS Speak if thou wilt whose speech nor mars nor mends! SPIRIT OF THE PITIES [into Napoleon's ear] Why thus and thus Napoleon? Can it be That Wagram with its glories, shocks, and shames, Still leaves athirst the palate of thy pride? NAPOLEON [answering as in soliloquy]