LXVII.

Still, as the monarch and his chieftains pass Through those pale throngs, the streaming torch-light throws On some wild form, amidst the living mass, Hues, deeply red like lava’s, which disclose What countless shapes are worn by mortal woes! Lips bloodless, quivering limbs, hands clasp’d in prayer, Starts, tremblings, hurryings, tears; all outward shows Betokening inward agonies, were there: Greeks! Romans! all but such as image brave despair!