A Fate like this, you may conceive, to paint
Language and Colours are too weak and faint:
The Lad in Agony with Grief and pain,
The hurried Man too wretched to complain;
But o’er the Body of the dead, her Guilt
Forgotten, and her blood by Vengeance spilt,
The very Beasts stood trembling, and the day
In cloudy Stillness slowly past away.
A Gipsy [Horde]—what time could intervene
None knows, for Darkness then had veil’d the Scene—