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312 Or if perchance one thinks to wake At early dawn, no thoughts whatever Rise for the wretched being's sake, Who death is waiting there. Unmoved by pity's kind control, Men hear around the funeral cry, "Your alms, for prayers to rest the soul Of him condemn'd to die." Sleeps in his bed the judge in peace; And sleeps and dreams of how his store, The executioner, to increase; And pleased he counts it o'er. Only the city's silence breaks, And destined place of death portrays, The harden'd workman who awakes The scaffolding to raise.

Confused and mad his heated mind, With raving feverish dreams combined, The culprit's soul exhaustion press'd, His head sunk heavy on his breast.