SECURE within his citadel, my heart,
A roystering King, has quaft his goblets brimm'd
At pleasure's sparkling fount,—has quaft and slept
Has hugg'd the phantom of delight—and slept
Not dreaming from his sleep he'd e'er awake
To find his towers a ruin, and his bliss
Sepulchred in the dust: but now, alas!
The truth discover'd, he assumes his staff
And walks the world, and when he'd halt, lest
Should build another citadel, and play
The merry fool he played—a voice exclaims:
'Reflect!—the Earthquake!' and he halteth not.