Chapter LXXII

Say, has our Capital no tarpeian height[8]
From which to hurl the traitor? Standing now,
Where once he stood, in patriotic might,
With the fresh laurel wreath upon his brow,
And Freedom burning on his lip of flame;
Does Pity plead forgiveness for his shame?
Then bear him thence, like Manlius, and be just--
Or go to Vernon's shade, and desecrate its dust.