—Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal'd!
E'en now the courier to his steed is flying,
He spurs—he speeds—with tidings of the day,
To rouse up cities in his lightning way.
Why pour ye thus from your deserted homes,
Oh, eager multitudes! around him pressing?
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams,
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing!
Know ye not whence th' ill omen'd herald comes,
And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?
—Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold—
Be ye content!—the glorious tale is told.
I hear the voice of joy, th' exulting cry!
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains;
E'en now the homicides assail the sky
With pæans, which indignant Heaven disdains!
But, from the soaring Alps, the stranger's eye
Looks watchful down on our ensanguin'd plains,
And with the cruel rapture of a foe,
Numbers the mighty, stretch'd in death below.
X
