A stranger's threshold may he seek where now he walks
A well-known guest; and—this the blackest curse I know—
May children rise to him to emulate their sire,
Their mother's image bear.—Now won is vengeance, won!
For I have children borne.—Nay, nay, 'tis empty plaints25
And useless words I frame. Shall I not rather rush
Against the foe and dash the torches from their hands,
The light from heaven? Does Father Phoebus suffer this?
Do men behold his face, as, seated in his car,
He rolls along th' accustomed track of sky serene?30