Yes, thy son shall still be near,
Call to him, and he shall hear.
Stretch thy hand, and, cold and perish’d,
At his heart it shall be cherish’d.
[Goes down to Agnes.]
As the Morn not so the Night.
Then my soul was set on fight,
Then I heard the war-drum rattle,
Yearn’d the sword of Wrath to swing,
Lies to trample, Trolls to fling,