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Is not to be restrained—defying blows, The prancing charger's hoofs, the sbirri's staves, They crowd around the hero, fill the air With shouts of Sforza! Sforza! brave Geraldi!— Seize on his courser's reins, and press their lips Upon his flowing mantle. Ah, 'tis like,— Set up an image to the populace, Decked with a few vain trophies, they will fall In mad idolatry to worship it. Modest and mild, yet cheerful, Sforza reins His haughty steed, giving to all the crowd Warm thanks, and kinder smiles. A gallant train, The nobles of the city, ride behind, Bearing the spoils of Tunis, all enwreathed With laurel foliage: from the balconies, Filled with the fairest and the noblest dames, Are flung rich perfum'd scarves, chaplets, and crowns;