LXXI.

The stately fane is reach’d--and at its gate The warriors pause. On life’s tumultuous tide A stillness falls, while he whom regal state Hath mark’d from all, to be more sternly tried By suffering, speaks: each ruder voice hath died, While his implores forgiveness!--“If there be One midst your throngs, my people! whom, in pride Or passion, I have wrong’d; such pardon free As mortals hope from heaven, accord that man to me!”