A scene of death from thence must be survey’d.
Mark’d ye the rushing throngs?—each mien is pale,
Each hurried glance reveals a fearful tale:
But the deep workings of th’ indignant breast,
Wrath, hatred, pity, must be all suppress’d;
The burning tear awhile must check its course,
Th’ avenging thought concentrate all its force;
For tyranny is near, and will not brook
Aught but submission in each guarded look.
Girt with his fierce Provençals, and with mien