XCIX.
He who the Moorish monarch’s force would tell,
Which Charlemagne this day will have to meet,
In wooded Apennine might count as well
The trees upon its back, or waves that beat
(What time the troubled waters highest swell)
Against the Mauritanian Atlas’ feet;
Or watch at midnight with how many eyes
The furtive works of lovers Heaven espies[15].
C.
The larum-bells, loud-sounding through the air,
Stricken with frequent blows[16], the town affray;
And in the crowded temples every where
Movement of lips and hands upraised to pray
Are seen: if treasure seemed to God so fair
As to our foolish thoughts, upon this day
The holy consistory had bid mould
Their every statue upon earth in gold,
CI.
Lamenting may be heard the aged just,
In that they were reserved for such a woe;
Calling those happy that in sacred dust
Were buried many and many a year ago.
But the bold youths who, valiant and robust,
Small thought upon the approaching ills bestow,
Scorning their elders’ counsel, here and there
Hurrying, in fury, to the walls repair.
