While on the mountain-side it bends the new grown trees.
The beauty of this morn, only one scene destroys.
Where, into yonder lake projects the narrow isle,
The shadows of whose towns and turrets high and steep
Bathe in the greenish lap of the waters cool and deep,
A din arises there, the morning to defile.
Through the city gates a throng crowds with a rising noise.
From far, the people haste—still larger grows the throng,
Then larger, larger grows this seething regiment;
Till countless is the mass—The throng grows more intent.
A man about to die will pass here before long.
An army regiment now marches through the gate,
Leading with measured stride to his relentless fate,
The man condemned to die for an unpardoned wrong.
A while the throng is hushed—but soon begins again
And many a voice is raised to an excited strain;
35
