And still she mourns to live, and prays to die,
Till heart denies to groan, and eyes to flow;
Then, on her couch of rushes sinking low,
Languid and lost she lies, in silent, senseless woe.
What lifts her burning head? why opes her eye?
What makes her blood run back? A faint shrill cry!
Too well, alas! that cry was understood:
The monster pined for want, and claim’d its food.
Then in her heart what rival passions strove!
How shrinks disgust, how yearns maternal love!