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23
THE TRIUMPH.
(A FUNERAL FANCY)
The sad array wound slowly along the road;The dusky feathers nodding on the bier
Moved in the solemn distance; spreading near,
The dark and sluggish stream of mourners flowed,
Oft pausing, with slow resumption of the load
Of lazy motion; through the tranquil, clear,
Thin morning air, a sound upon the ear,
Monotonous of feet and wheels abode.
A tyrant's triumph I beheld, I thought;
On that plumed car, unseen of mortal eye
Enthroned; and the slain victim that did lie
Beneath his feet, on those his vassals brought
Dumb fear—each knowing it might be his lot
Next to adorn that awful pageantry.
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