LXX.
Hath it been thus?—Or did ye grace the halls,
Once peopled by the mighty?—Haply there,
In your still grandeur, from the pillar'd walls
Serene ye smiled on banquets of despair,
Where hopeless courage wrought itself to dare
The stroke of its deliverance, midst the glow
Of living wreaths, the sighs of perfumed air,
The sound of lyres, the flower-crown'd goblet's flow15[1]:
LXXI.
The stately fane is reach'd—and at its gate
The warriors pause; on life's tumultuous tide
A stillness falls, while he, whom regal state
Hath mark'd from all, to be more sternly tried
By suffering, speaks:—each ruder voice hath died,
While his implores forgiveness!—"If there be
One midst your throngs, my people!—whom in pride.
Or passion, I have wrong'd; such pardon, free
