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We must advance, and with our closing ranks The fatal pile encircle.

Hast thou heard any thing?

Nought, save the murmur of the multitude, Sinking at times to deep and awful silence, From which again a sudden burst will rise Like mingled exclamations, as of horror Or admiration. In these neighbouring streets I have not met a single citizen, The town appearing uninhabited. But wherefore art thou here? Thou should'st have stayed With the unhappy mother of poor Cælus.

She sent me hither in her agony Of fear and fearful hope.