Was oft forespent. But now this child alone960
Is left, my comrade, comfort of my woes,
For whom to pray, in whom to rest my soul.
Hers are the only lips still left to me
To call me mother. Poor, unhappy soul,
Why dost thou cling so stubbornly to life?
Oh speed thee out, and grant me death at last,
The only boon I seek. Behold, I weep;
And from my cheeks, o'erwhelmed with sympathy,965
A sudden rain of grieving tears descends.