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
As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”