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The cries of children, the confused jargon of the crowd, fall but faintly on his nerves; he likes the sensation of being in company; he has a dim notion of the beauty of the vast sky with its shining snowy-bosomed clouds, and he lets the light breeze blow over him.
Quickly the night cometh, When red the streets with gore o’ the mightiest Shall fiercely flow, like Tiber in flood. Rise then, avenger, the time it hath come! Wake bloody tyrants from merry banquetting, From downy couches, snowy-bosomed women And ruby wine-cups, wake—The avenger Springs to his arms, for the time it hath come!
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