LXXXVI.
Woe, shame and woe!—A chief, a warrior flies,
A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale!
—Oh God! that Nature’s passing agonies
Thus, o’er the spark which dies not, should prevail!
Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter’d mail,
And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa’s fallen son![224]
Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail!
—But there are tortures which thou canst not shun:
The spirit is their prey—thy pangs are but begun!