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A pilgrim to each hero's tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom; And, midst those dwellings of decay, At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, 'Tis like a dirge for empires gone!

Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, And rouse th' inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet's hour along!— The feast is spread; and music's call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave, and trophies shine, O'er stately guests in glittering line; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep, The still small voice of conscience die, Lost in the din of revelry.