Are foster’d by the people? Have they lost
The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name
Of Gracchus in their hearts—reveal the truth—
Already number’d with forgotten things?
Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now there,
Borne on light pinion—such the people’s love!
Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults
Are of their miseries; and their feebleness
Is to their woes proportion’d. Haply still
The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine.