His ravaged city traversing again.
No sound of gladness his approach precedes,
No splendid pageant the procession leads;
Where’er he moves the silent streets along,
Broods a stern quiet o’er the sullen throng.
No voice is heard; but in each alter’d eye,
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh,
And in each look of those whose love hath fled
From all on earth to slumber with the dead,
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown