And by the tombs where dust is shrined
Once tenanted by loftiest mind,
Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate!
Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d,
Rush on the gathering multitude.
—Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet
That thus the Roman thousands meet?
With names that bid their thoughts ascend,
Crescentius! thine in song to blend;