Scenes the poor might ne’er intrude.
Hark! the sound of music swelling!—
Now the crowd are rushing by,
Horses prancing, banners flying,
Shouts ascending to the sky!—
There’s a sea of life beneath me,
And his form is there,—
For his fearful sin who spurns him?
On his brow what sign of care?
I see her now—she trembles—