"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,
And 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.
And the happy, unregarded,
Mocked 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 consigned,
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.
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