Such were the sounds that from the gallery’s height
Roll’d thundering to the pit below;
Rous’d slumbering Uproar from her seat,
And wak’d the yell of clamorous Row:
Fierce Wienholt stood aghast in speechless trance;
To arms! Fitzgerald cried, and shook the sconce:
Perch’d on a box, with haughty brow,
Flush’d with the purple stream, in angry mood,
Rob’d in his soldier’s garb, he stood
Prepar’d the loose placard to throw.