Thy foes had girt thee with their dread array, O stately Alexandria!--yet the sound Of mirth and music, at the close of day, Swell’d from thy splendid fabrics far around O’er camp and wave. Within the royal hall, In gay magnificence the feast was spread; And, brightly streaming from the pictured wall, A thousand lamps their trembling lustre shed O’er many a column, rich with precious dyes, That tinge the marble’s vein, ’neath Afric’s burning skies. And soft and clear that wavering radiance play’d O’er sculptured forms, that round the pillar’d scene Calm and majestic rose, by art array’d In godlike beauty, awfully serene. Oh! how unlike the troubled guests, reclined Round that luxurious board!--in every face Some shadow from the tempest of the mind, Rising by fits, the searching eye might trace, Though vainly mask’d in smiles which are not mirth, But the proud spirit’s veil thrown o’er the woes of earth. Their brows are bound with wreaths, whose transient bloom May still survive the wearers--and the rose Perchance may scarce be wither’d, when the tomb Receives the mighty to its dark repose! The day must dawn on battle, and may set In death--but fill the mantling wine-cup high! Despair is fearless, and the Fates e’en yet Lend her one hour for parting revelry. They who the empire of the world possess’d Would taste its joys again, ere all exchanged for rest. Its joys! oh, mark yon proud Triumvir’s mien, And read their annals on that brow of care! Midst pleasure’s lotus-bowers his steps have been: Earth’s brightest pathway led him to despair. Trust not the glance that fain would yet inspire The buoyant energies of days gone by; There is delusion in its meteor fire, And all within is shame, is agony! Away! the tear in bitterness may flow, But there are smiles which bear a stamp of deeper woe. Thy cheek is sunk, and faded as thy fame, O lost, devoted Roman! yet thy brow, To that ascendant and undying name, Pleads with stem loftiness thy right e’en now. Thy glory is departed, but hath left A lingering light around thee: in decay Not less than kingly--though of all bereft, Thou seem’st as empire had not pass’d away. Supreme in ruin! teaching hearts elate A deep prophetic dread of still mysterious fate! But thou, enchantress queen! whose love hath made His desolation--thou art by his side, In all thy sovereignty of charms array’d, To meet the storm with still unconquer’d pride. Imperial being! e’en though many a stain Of error be upon thee, there is power In thy commanding nature, which shall reign O’er the stern genius of misfortune’s hour; And the dark beauty of thy troubled eye E’en now is all illumed with wild sublimity.