To soothe thy victim’s agonies:
The heart once made thy burning throne,
Still, while it beats, is thine alone.
In vain for Otho’s joyless eye
Smile the fair scenes of Italy,
As through her landscapes’ rich array
Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way.
Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight
Rises when nature laughs in light,
Glides round him at the midnight hour,