A priest appears the hostile Jews among, With peace and soft persuasion on his tongue, Accedes to all the terms of Roman law, And Titus owns, to shun the dreadful war. Soon as his peace-fraught eloquence was done, Ill fated man! his course on earth was run: A harden’d rebel’s well-aim’d barbed dart Rends his fine robe, and pierces to his heart. “Woe to Jerusalem! (he calls aloud) Thy end is come—observe, ye foolish crowd, God by his prophets this thy fall foretold, Be cruel still, and, if ye can, be bold; For fall you must—the sword is pois’d on high, Darkness overspreads and hides the shining sky”— He stops—he strives—alas! can say no more, And dying wallows in his smoking gore. A joyful shout his last sad murmurs drown, Placidus hears, and bends his brow to frown; When swift as flashing lightnings ever sped, Wing’d darts and jav’lins fly around his head. His little army, planted thick around, Return the show’r, and dying bite the ground. Placidus views his comrades round him lie, He bids the rest give back, and heaves a sigh; Yet still they fall, the coward and the brave, Till none are left but firm Placidus’ slave, Who, when they mark his master for their prey, Uplifts his shield, and turns each death away: But ah! what fury glows in yonder crew, Now flush’d with blood, their treachery pursue. Thick fly the darts around the noble pair, Who now like brothers in the danger share; Yet fate omnipotent will e’en prevail, And—(must I tell the sad, the dreary tale)— A venom’d shafts more cruel than the rest, Now takes its standing in the poor slave’s breast; Sighing he falls, upon his bleeding friends, With tears his master him alone defends. Then mounts him moaning with him on the steed, And spurs towards the camp with utmost speed; Fatigued with toil, and heated with the rage, Within his tent he rests his wounded page, Extracts the dart, returns each rising groan, And weeping feels the suff’rings as his own. The youth in anguish bids him stop the tear, And turn his thoughts to her he still holds dear; While yet he speaks, his lightsome helm lays by; Oh, heav’ns! what rapture strikes his master’s eye! Amaz’d he stands, and views the smiling youth, Who faintly utters thus the pleasing truth: “In me the lost Paulina you behold, The constant lover of Placidus bold, You only my fond heart could ever gain, For you I’ve suffer’d toil, now suffer pain; For you a life of sweeten’d woe I’ve spent, But heaven now a kind relief has sent; My hopes, my fears, my earthly joys, are past, Then on thy faithful breast I’ll breathe my last; To guard your life I fought, and guarding fell, Remember thy Paulina,—and farewell!” Annihilation strikes the wond’ring chief, And every sense with her is lost in grief, Till in his tent, with Titus at their head,