Though it should bid me stifle
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild—
“All—I would do it all—
Sooner than die, lie a dull worm, to rot—
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot!
O heavens!—but I appall
Your heart, old man! forgive——ha! on your lives
Let him not faint!—rack him till he revives!
“Vain—vain—give o’er! His eye