Still havoc, plunder reigns. Where is thy sword, Sebastian, Warrior-Saint, that now should wheel Like the Archangel’s, Eden who restored To Solitude? Dost thou less horror feel That thine own City ’neath the shock should reel Of ruffian violence? Prætorian brave, The Imperial Boar withstanding in thy zeal, Thou whom nor Roman shafts subdued nor glaive, Thy consecrated town arise, great Saint, and save! XXVII. Oh, arrow-pierced for Christ! whose mighty ban Against the arrowy shower of pestilence In aid Divine is still invoked by Man, And potent still, this plague send howling hence. By that great voice, whose eloquence intense, When Marcus trembled, made him firm to win The Martyr-crown, and Christian turned the dense Blood-thirsting crowd--guard, judges--all within Its mighty compass, rise, and stay the steps of sin! XXVIII. Nazrene Apollo, beautiful as bold, Whose worship whirls the enthusiast Southern maid To passion oft and madness, to behold Thee limned so blooming fair--give, give thine aid! Oh, by Irene’s love who undismayed Unbound thee, pouring balm into each wound The archers left--against the pillar laid-- When dead they thought thee who had only swooned; By her who healed thee, raise that voice to mercy tuned! XXIX. By that majestic Faith, whose dauntless power Confronted Cæsar at his palace gate, When to the Capitol in glory’s hour The Tyrant proud ascended, lording fate; And dared reproach him with his cruel hate For God’s elect; and by the Martyr-crown Thy zeal soon won, oh leave not desolate The walls that bear thy name. Forbear to frown. The patron gives no sign. Alas, devoted town! XXX. High on the greater breach where hours before Had swept the wave of battle, ’neath the black And murky cope, which flashed red lightnings o’er, A maiden stood alone in murder’s track, A white-robed angel seemed ’mid general wrack, And to and fro amid the heaps of slain, And round and round and forward then and back, Peered in each pallid face War’s iron rain Had shattered there, and passed like Judgment in Death’s train. XXXI. ’Twas Blanca! she had heard too soon, too soon Of William’s fall, and sought his corse, I ween. As girt with thunder-clouds the silver Moon, So shone the maiden in that direful scene. But, ah, her cheek had lost its rosy sheen, Glared wild her eye, her tresses loosely fell. With frantic haste and Pythonissa’s mien, She tears away the corses where they dwell In gory heaps that prove they stood the tempest well. XXXII.