Adorn’d with laurel boughs, they come,
    Crowd after crowd—­the way divine,
  Where fanes are deck’d—­for gods the home—­
    And to the Thymbrian’s[17] solemn shrine. 
  The wild Bacchantic joy is madd’ning
    The thoughtless host, the fearless guest;
  And there, the unheeded heart is sadd’ning
    One solitary breast!

  Unjoyous in the joyful throng,
    Alone, and linking life with none,
  Apollo’s laurel groves among
    The still Cassandra wander’d on! 
  Into the forest’s deep recesses
    The solemn Prophet-Maiden pass’d,
  And, scornful, from her loosen’d tresses,
    The sacred fillet cast!

  “To all its arms doth Mirth unfold,
    And every heart foregoes its cares;
  And Hope is busy in the old;
    The bridal-robe my sister wears. 
  But I alone, alone am weeping;
    The sweet delusion mocks not me—­
  Around these walls destruction sweeping
    More near and near I see!

  “A torch before my vision glows,
    But not in Hymen’s hand it shines;
  A flame that to the welkin goes,
    But not from holy offering-shrines;
  Glad hands the banquet are preparing,
    And near, and near the halls of state
  I hear the God that comes unsparing;
    I hear the steps of Fate.

  “And men my prophet-wail deride! 
    The solemn sorrow dies in scorn;
  And lonely in the waste, I hide
    The tortured heart that would forewarn. 
  Amidst the happy, unregarded,
    Mock’d by their fearful joy, I trod;
  Oh, dark to me the lot awarded,
    Thou evil Pythian god!

  “Thine oracle, in vain to be,
    Oh, wherefore am I thus consign’d
  With eyes that every truth must see,
    Lone in the City of the Blind? 
  Cursed with the anguish of a power
    To view the fates I may not thrall,
  The hovering tempest still must lower—­
    The horror must befall!

  “Boots it the veil to lift, and give
    To sight the frowning fates beneath? 
  For error is the life we live,
    And, oh, our knowledge is but death! 
  Take back the clear and awful mirror,
    Shut from mine eyes the blood-red glare
  Thy truth is but a gift of terror
    When mortal lips declare.

  “My blindness give to me once more[18]—­
    The gay dim senses that rejoice;
  The Past’s delighted songs are o’er
    For lips that speak a Prophet’s voice. 
  To me the future thou hast granted;
    I miss the moment from the chain—­
  The happy Present-Hour enchanted! 
    Take back thy gift again!

  “Never for me the nuptial wreath
    The odor-breathing hair shall twine;
  My heavy heart is bow’d beneath
    The service of thy dreary shrine. 
  My youth was but by tears corroded,—­
    My sole familiar is my pain,
  Each coming ill my heart foreboded,
    And felt it first—­in vain!