With panting dread to lose their simple lives;
So, fleeing from the swords upraised to slay,
Do these poor children, and these tender wives,
Run on from street to street, O fate insane!
To lengthen out their certain death, in vain.
Within the breast of his belovèd bride
The husband sheathes his keen and glittering brand;
Devoid of pity, and of filial pride,
The son against the mother turns his hand;
The father, casting clemency aside,