and there weep our bosoms empty.
Macd. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men
Bestride our downfall’n birthdom. Each new morn
New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows
Strike on the face of heaven, that it resounds
As if it felt with Scotland and yelled out
Like syllable of dolour.
Mr. Lincoln leaned back in his chair in the shade after this sentence was pronounced, and for a long time wore a sad, sober face, as if suddenly his thoughts had wandered from the playroom far away to where his great armies contest with the rebellious of a vast empire.