XXXVIII

Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head,

To Caesar's Successor the Pontiff spake;

“Ere I absolve thee, stoop! that on thy neck

Levelled with earth this foot of mine may tread.”

Then he, who to the altar had been led,

He, whose strong arm the Orient could not check,

He, who had held the Soldanat his beck,

Stooped, of all glory disinherited,

And even the common dignity of man!—

Amazement strikes the crowd: while many turn

Their eyes away in sorrow, others burn

With scorn, invoking a vindictive ban

From outraged Nature; but the sense of most

In abject sympathy with power is lost.