If ever solemn pile and soaring fire
In freedom sped you to the Stygian tide,—
Have pity on your children: let the breath
Of living sorrow melt the frozen ear of death.
For Her that, sprung like us from your high line,
Hath mingled in the sacrifice of guilt,
Ye know that angry star, her natal sign,
To expiate whose curse this blood is spilt;
If not suffices this atoning blood,
Oh, steep the thought of her in Lethe’s flood.