 | Mariamne |  |
SCENE IV.
[To them Pheroras enters.]Pheroras.
The pomp of Kings
At their triumphal entries, moving slow
To warlike symphonies, and clashing arms;
When from the field, with bloody laurels crown'd,
They come victorious, gives a mingled joy:
For Pity, when the Captive train appears,
Oft with a silent pensive gloom obscures
The lustre of the triumph. But no cloud.
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I heard with rapture how the loyal tribes,
In mighty confluence hail'd the King's return;
So long! so loud! that floating on the sound,
The bird of heaviest wing with ease had soar'd,
Beyond the tow'ring eagle's utmost flight,
Up-born by gales of joy.
[Flourish.
Soh.
My lord, the King!—
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