Page:Songs of the Affections.pdf/239

Rh

As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, Ye mix'd in the gorgeous revelry.

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom, A thought and a shadow of the tomb; It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, To the rose a colouring not its own, To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power— Sadness and Mirth! ye had each your dower!

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, With the Roman eagles through the sky! I know that ev'n then, in his hour of pride, The soul of the mighty within him died; That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, Which the music of victory might never fill!

Thou wert there, oh! Mirth! swelling on the shout, Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out; Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine, All the rich voices in air were thine,