LXXIII.

_He_ hath been loved. But who may trust the love Of a degenerate race?--in other mould Are cast the free and lofty hearts that prove Their faith through fiery trials. Yet behold, And call him not forsaken!--thoughts untold Have lent his aspect calmness, and his tread Moves firmly to the shrine. What pomps unfold Within its precincts! Isles and seas have shed Their gorgeous treasures there, around th’ imperial dead.