LXXXIII.

LXXXIII. O thou, whose chariot rolled on Fortune's wheel, Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O'er prostrate Asia;--thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates--Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown--