Melancholy

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I am the Empire in the last of its decline, 
That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while 
Composing indolent acrostics, in a style 
Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line.
The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile Ennui.
Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine.
Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,- Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire! Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, has done laughing, pray? Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten! Nothing more to say! Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire; Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one; Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun!

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