XXVIII

The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;

      The vultures to the conqueror's banner true

      Who feed where Desolation first has fed,

      And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled,

      When, like Apollo, from his golden bow

      The Pythian of the age one arrow sped

      And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow,

They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.