Classic Poem

He lieth low whose constant art
For years the daily feasts purveyed
Of wayfarers from every mart,
The Paladins of every trade.

And yet to-night gay music stirs
The halls he strolled through yestere'en,
And mantles high the wine that spurs
The revellers by him unseen.

Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!
One leader drops, another comes;
On flows the dance, — a stream of joy
Staccatoed by the muffled drums.

That soon for us shall mark the tread
Of mourning friends and chanting priests.
Ah! there are other banquets spread
Than Siro's memorable feasts.