The dangers of the hour! no thoughtWe give them; Punic seaman's fearIs all of Bosporus, nor aughtReeks he of pitfalls otherwhere;The soldier fears the mask'd retreatOf Parthia; Parthia dreads the thrallOf Rome; but Death with noiseless feetHas stolen and will steal on all.How near dark Pluto's court I stood,And Aeacus' judicial throne,The blest seclusion of the good,And Sappho, with sweet lyric moanBewailing her ungentle sex,And thee, Alcaeus, louder farChanting thy tale of woful wrecks,Of woful exile, woful war!In sacred awe the silent deadAttend on each: but when the songOf combat tells and tyrants fled,Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.