"To all its arms doth mirth unfold, And every heart foregoes its cares, And hope is busy in the old; The bridal robe my sister wears, And I alone, alone am weeping; The sweet delusion mocks not me; Around these walls destruction sweeping, More near and near I see. A torch before my vision glows, But not in Hymen's hand it shines; A flame that to the welkin goes, But not from holy offering shrines: Glad hands the banquet are preparing, And near and near the halls of state, I hear the god that comes unsparing, I hear the steps of fate. And men my prophet wail deride! The solemn sorrow dies in scorn; And lonely in the waste I hide The tortured heart that would forewarn. And the happy, unregarded, Mocked by their fearful joy, I trod: Oh! dark to me the lot awarded, Thou evil Pythian god! Thine oracle in vain to be, Oh! wherefore am I thus consigned, With eyes that every truth must see, Lone in the city of the blind? Cursed with the anguish of a power To view the fates I may not thrall; The hovering tempest still must lower, The horror must befall. Boots it, the veil to lift, and give To sight the frowning fates beneath? For error is the life we live, And, oh, our knowledge is but death! Take back the clear and awful mirror, Shut from mine eyes the blood-red glare; Thy truth is but a gift of terror, When mortal lips declare. My blindness give to me once more, The gay, dim senses that rejoice; The past's delighted songs are o'er For lips that speak a prophet's voice. To me _the future_ thou has granted; I miss the moment from the chain-- The happy present hour enchanted! Take back thy gift again!"* [Bulwer's translation.]