Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/29

 His soul transported with a storm of ire, And all the rage that malice could inspire; By turns the tort'ring scourges we might hear, By turns the shrieks of wretches stun'd the ear. Still to my mind the dire ideas rise, When rage unusual sparkled in his eyes; When with the dreadful scourge insulting loud, The tyrant terrifi'd the blooming crowd; A boy the fairest of the frighted train, Who yet scarce gave the promise of a man, Ah, dismal object! idly past the day In all the thoughtless innocence of play; When lo! th' imperious wretch inflam'd with rage, Fierce, and regardless of his tender age, With fury storms; the fault his clamours urge; His hand high-waving brandishes the scourge. Tears, vows, and pray'rs the tyrant's ears assail; In vain; nor tears, nor vows, nor pray'rs prevail. The trembling innocent from deep despair Sicken'd, and breath'd his little soul in air. For him old Po, beneath his poplars, mourns; For him old Serius weeps from all his urns; For