Her sense, her wits, her feeling all away,
The fiend once more had seized the unguarded hour
To force her weakness, and abuse his ower.
“Qualis populeâ,” &c.—Virgil.
Again Lucina came. That new-born cry,
Shuddering, again she heard; her fearful eye
Wander’d around awhile, nor dared to stay.
“There, there he lies! my child!” With fresh essay
Once more she turn’d. But when at length her sight
Dwelt on its face, her wonder—her delight—