Lxxiv

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:--no one on his form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

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