King Julius left the south country,
⁠His banners all bravely flying;
His followers went out with Jubilee,
⁠But they shall return with sighing.

Loud arose the triumphal hymn,
⁠The drums were loudly rolling;
Yet you might have heard in distant din
⁠How a passing bell was tolling.

The sward so bright from battles won,
⁠With unseen rust is fretting;
The evening comes before the noon,
⁠The scarce risen sun is setting.

While princes hang upon his breath
⁠And nations round are fearing,
Close by his side a daggered death
⁠With sheathless point stands sneering.

That Death he took a certain aim,
⁠For Death is stony-hearted;
And in the zenith of his fame
⁠Both power and life departed.

April 20, 1839.