That swift contagion, on Palermo’s bands
Came like a deadly blight. They fled!—Oh shame!
E’en now they fly! Ay, through the city gates
They rush, as if all Etna’s burning streams
Pursued their wingèd steps!
Raim. Thou hast not named
Their chief—Di Procida—he doth not fly?
Vit. No! like a kingly lion in the toils,
Daring the hunters yet, he proudly strives:
But all in vain! The few that breast the storm,