With aught that breathes the ethereal element,
Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,
Unjustly shed, though for the public good.
Blind choice—for since that day, the chief, the sage,
Prime boast and envy of a glorious age,
Droops, the slave of fear and sorrow;
For since that hour the studious walks and shades,
Whose once sweet memory her Spirit dreads,
Depress'd to-day, and unrelieved to-morrow,
Hath Dion pined with sharp regret and sorrow.