O’er whom the host may rush, the tempest rave,
And the steeds trample, and the spearmen close,
Yet wake them not!—so deep their long and last repose!
XCII.
Woe to the vanquish’d!—thus it hath been still
Since Time’s first march! Hark, hark, a people’s cry!
Ay, now the conquerors in the streets fulfil
Their task of wrath! In vain the victims fly;
Hark! now each piercing tone of agony
Blends in the city’s shriek! The lot is cast.