band
A sad procession followed, hand in hand;
Heroes un-heroed, most unknightly knights,
Wand-broken fairies, disenchanted sprites;
Dukes no more ducal, even on the bill,
Milk-livered murd'rers too ill-fed to kill;
Mild-looking demons that a babe might daunt,
Witches and ghosts most naturally gaunt;
Lovers made pale by keener pangs than love's,
Unspangled princesses with greasy gloves;
Wits very witless--grave comedians mute,
And silent sons of violin and flute.

After these down-look'd leaders of the show,
Who creep like Trajan's Dacians, wan and slow,
Comes a long train of underlings that bear
Imperial robes that kings no more may wear;
With truncheons, helmets, thunder-bolts and casks
Of snow and lightning--bucklers, foils and masks.
As tow'rd the steep of Capitolian Jove
When chiefs victorious through the rabble strove,
With all their conquests in their trophies told,
And every battle mark'd with plundered gold;
When the whole glory of the war rolled by,
And gaping Rome seemed all one mighty eye,
Behind the living captives came the dead,
Poor noseless gods, and some without a head,
With pictures, ivory images and plumes,
And priceless tapestry from palace-looms;
Ev'n such, although Night's alchymy no more
The crinkling tinsel turns to precious ore,
Appears the pomp of this discarded race,
As heaped with spoil they quit their ancient place,
Bearing their Lares with them as they go--
Two dusty statues and a bust or so;
With mail which once a Harry Fifth had on,
Triumphal cars with all the triumph gone;
Goblets of tin mixed up with Yorick's bones,
Bags made of togas--barrows formed of thrones,
Whereon the majesty of Denmark sat;
Fie! Juliet's petticoats in Wolsey's hat!
Swords hacked at Bosworth, fasces, guns and spears
Rusted with blood before, and now with tears.

Enough of this: kind prompter, touch the bell!
Children of mirth and midnight, fare ye well!
The vision melts away, the motley crowd
Is veiled by Prospero in a passing cloud;
Like his dissolving pageantry they fade,
The vap'ry stuff whereof our dreams are made;
No more malignant winter to beguile,
Nor start the virgin's tear, the judge's smile;
Save when some annalist, like me, recalls
The ancient fame of those degraded walls;
Or till an age less hateful to the Muse
To their old shape restore the anxious pews.