His dart in vigorous bosoms, till the earth
Is purple-dyed in gore—still will I stand
Fix'd as the oak, when tempests sweep the forest.
But, still, one woman's fear—one touch of nature,
Tugs at my heartstrings—'tis for thee, my child!
—Oh! may the white-robed angel,
That watches over baby innocence,
Hear a fond mother's prayer, and in the battle
Cast his protecting mantle round thee!—On—
Away. [Exit.