Such as are lothly utter’d to the air,
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame, the bosom wring,
And Guilt his secret burthen cannot bear,
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair.
Full on the Prelate’s face, and silver hair,
The stream of failing light was feebly roll’d;
But Roderick’s visage, though his head was bare,
Was shadow’d by his hand and mantle’s fold,
While of his hidden soul the sins he told,
Proud Alaric’s descendant could not brook,