Instead of thee, my father, oh, my father!”
And she has draped her graceful limbs in weeds,
In drapery of mourning all too weak
To give expression to her speechless woe!
Behold her drooping o’er her honored dead,
Her grief too deep for tears: and there she stands
Gazing intently on his ghastly wounds
Whence blood and brain are oozing, and she cries:
“Behold the work of treason! lo, the deed
Of parricides who lifted up their hands,