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And the floor gave back a muffled tone From the couches of the dead: The silent many that round him lay, The crown'd and helm'd that were, The haughty chiefs of the war-array— Each in his sepulchre!

But no dim warning of time or fate That youth's flush'd hopes could chill, He moved through the trophies of buried state With each proud pulse throbbing still. He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, A swell of the trumpet's breath; He look'd to the banners on high that hung, And not to the dust beneath.

And a royal masque of splendour seem'd   Before him to unfold; Through the solemn arches on it stream'd,   With many a gleam of gold: