But while with fiercest Ire  glows,
And  rather Hopes than Fears Her Fate;
While  presses Her afflicted Foes;
What Horror damps the Strong, and quells the Great?
Whence look the Soldiers Cheeks dismay'd and pale?
Erst ever dreadful, know They now to dread?
The Hostile Troops, I ween, almost prevail;
And the Pursuers only not recede.
Alas! their lessen'd Rage proclaims their Grief!
For anxious, lo! They croud around their falling Chief!