There was calm in the spirit's depths; In chains the demons slept; With purpose fell to work his ill Uprose the wicked will. "Fling wide," he cried, "The prison-gate, Come forth, ye demons all!" With yell and shout That hideous rout Sprung out at the welcome call.
Tralala! Tralala! Whoop, whoop, whoop, hurrah, hurrah! Trumpet crash and cymbal clash; Flute, and fife, and violin, Squeaking, shrieking, clattering; Clarions ring with deafening din; Now hell's chorus shall begin, Now the fiends of madness reign; Gentle child-like peace is slain.
In and out, across, about, Whither pass this tumbling rout? Merry dance we, and the lights flash free, Jubilee, jubilee, jubilee! Kettle-drums bang and cymbals clang, And the devil drown care in the pool of despair.
With smiling lip and flashing eye Yon fair one bids me to her side; Yet silent soon those lips shall lie, And wither'd be her beauty's pride. Death's clammy hand is on her brow-- Ha! 'tis a skull that's beckoning now! She must die; yet what care I? Well to-day and well to-morrow, What have I to do with sorrow? Ay, grin as thou wilt, thou pale spectre, at me; I'll live and dance on, and I care not for thee.
To-day that face is fresh and fair, To-morrow 'tis bleach'd, and white, and bare: Come then, dearest, while we may, Let us drain love's sweets to-day. Oh, seize the moment ere it flies! Anguish and tears, Sorrow and fears, Have mark'd thee for their prize. The angel of death Swept by on the blast; On thee fell his breath Or ever he past. Gnawing worms and rottenness, Death, decay, and nothingness: These are thy doom--how soon, how soon! Thou must die, and so must I.
One touch of thy robe, as the dance sweeps by, One squeeze of the hand, one glance of the eye, And the grim king has clutch'd thee--on! on! let us fly! Thou art lost, thou art gone; and away stagger I. So why should I care? There is joy in despair: More maids by dozens at my feet, With tempting bait of proffer'd sweet. Here's a fair dame would be my bride, And she is fair as are the maids That wander in Elysian glades: Shall it be she, or shall it be another? There's a bold beauty at her side, That looks as if she'd like a lover, Ready to take whate'er she can, Provided only 'tis a man.