# The Siege of Valencia; The Last Constantine: with Other Poems/The Festal Hour

THE FESTAL HOUR.
When are the lessons given That shake the startled earth?—When wakes the foe, While the friend sleeps!—When falls the traitor's blow?  When are proud sceptres riven, High hopes o'erthrown?—It is, when lands rejoice, When cities blaze, and lift th' exulting voice, And wave their banners to the kindling heaven!
 Fear ye the festal hour! When mirth o'erflows, then tremble!—'Twas a night Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light,  When through the regal bower The trumpet peal'd, ere yet the song was done, And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, And trampling armies, ruthless in their power.
 The marble shrines were crown'd: Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody,  And censers waved around;
And lyres were strung, and bright libations pour'd, When, through the streets, flash'd out th' avenging sword, Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound*!
 Through Rome a triumph pass'd. Rich in her sun-god's mantling beams went by That long array of glorious pageantry,  With shout and trumpet-blast. An empire's gems their starry splendour shed O'er the proud march; a king in chains was led; A stately victor, crown'd and robed, came last†.
 And many a Dryad's bower Had lent the laurels, which, in waving play, Stirr'd the warm air, and glisten'd round his way,  As a quick-flashing shower. —O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung— Woe for the dead!—the father's broken flower!
A sound of lyre and song, In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile,  Swept with that voice along; And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam, Where a chief revell'd in a monarch's dome, And fresh rose-garlands deck'd a glittering throng.
 'Twas Antony that bade The joyous chords ring out!—but strains arose Of wilder omen at the banquet's close!  Sounds, by no mortal made*, Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, And pass'd—and with another sunset's light, The kingly Roman on his bier was laid.
 Bright midst its vineyards lay The fair Campanian city†, with its towers
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers,  Clear in the golden day; Joy was around it as the glowing sky, And crowds had fill'd its halls of revelry, And all the sunny air was music's way.
 A cloud came o'er the face Of Italy's rich heaven!—its crystal blue Was changed, and deepen'd to a wrathful hue  Of night, o'ershadowing space, As with the wings of death!—in all his power Vesuvius woke, and hurl'd the burning shower, And who could tell the buried city's place?
 Such things have been of yore, In the gay regions where the citrons blow, And purple summers all their sleepy glow  On the grape-clusters pour; And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, Along clear seas of melted sapphire, laving, As with a flow of light, their southern shore.
 Turn we to other climes! Far in the Druid-Isle a feast was spread,
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior-dead*,  And ancient battle-rhymes Were chanted to the harp; and yellow mead Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed, And lofty songs of Britain's elder time.
 But ere the giant-fane Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, Hush'd were the bards, and, in the face of Heaven,  O'er that old burial-plain Flash'd the keen Saxon dagger!—Blood was streaming, Where late the mead-cup to the sun was gleaming, And Britain's hearths were heap'd that night in vain.
 For they return'd no more! They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part;  And, on the rushy floor, And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, The high wood-fires were blazing in their halls; But not for them—they slept—their feast was o'er!
Fear ye the festal hour! Aye, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows! Tame down the swelling heart!—the bridal rose,  And the rich myrtle's flower Have veil'd the sword!—Red wines have sparkled fast From venom'd goblets, and soft breezes pass'd, With fatal perfume, through the revel's bower.
 Twine the young glowing wreath! But pour not all your spirit in the song, Which through the sky's deep azure floats along,  Like summer's quickening breath! The ground is hollow in the path of mirth, Oh! far too daring seems the joy of earth, So darkly press'd and girdled in by death!
* ↑ *The sword of Harmodius.
* ↑ †Paulus Æmilius, one of whose sons died a few days before, and another shortly after, his triumph on the conquest of Macedon, when Perseus, king of that country, was led in chains.
* ↑ * See the description given by Plutarch, in his life of Antony, of the supernatural sounds heard in the streets of Alexandria, the night before Antony's death.
* ↑ †Herculaneum, of which it is related, that all the inhabitants were assembled in the theatres, when the shower of ashes, which covered the city, descended.
* ↑ *Stonehenge, said by some traditions to have been erected to the memory of Ambrosius, an early British king; and by others mentioned as a monumental record of the massacre of British chiefs here alluded to.