Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth
Of these, the conquerors of the earth.
And she, proud Austria’s mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride, 110
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?
Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide? 115
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem;