LXXXVI.

Woe, shame and woe!--A chief, a warrior flies, A red-cross champion, bleeding, wild, and pale! --Oh God! that Nature’s passing agonies Thus, o’er the spark which dies not, should prevail! Yes! rend the arrow from thy shatter’d mail, And stanch the blood-drops, Genoa’s fallen son![224] Fly swifter yet! the javelins pour as hail! --But there are tortures which thou canst not shun: The spirit is _their_ prey--thy pangs are but begun!