Now to its life her feelings she prefers;
Now Nature wakes, and makes her own—“’Tis hers!”
Loathing its sight, she melts to hear its cries,
And, while she yields the breast, averts her eyes.
Not so the demon-sire: the child he raised,
He kiss’d it—danced it—nursed it—knelt, and gazed,
Till joyful tears gush’d forth, and dimm’d his sight:
Scarce Irza’s self was view’d with more delight.
He held it tow’rds her—horror seem’d to thrill
Her frame. He sigh’d, and clasp’d it closer still.