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Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. Quick is each step, and wild each mien, Portentous of some awful scene. Bride of Crescentius! as the throng Bore thee with whelming force along, How did thine anxious heart beat high, Till rose suspense to agony! Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, And leave thy heart to deeper woes.

Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, With fearless mien, but fetter'd hands? The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; And in his glance there lives a mind, Which was not form'd for chains to bind, But cast in such heroic mould As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old. Crescentius! freedom's daring son, Is this the guerdon thou hast won? O worthy to have lived and died In the bright days of Latium's pride!