At rest!—Ay, sweetly may the slaughter’d babe
By its dead mother sleep; and warlike men,
Who midst the slain have slumber’d oft before,
Making their shield their pillow, may repose
Well, now their toils are done.—Is’t not enough?
Con. Merciful heaven! have such things been? And yet
There is no shade come o’er the laughing sky!
—I am an outcast now.
Ans. O Thou whose ways
Clouds mantle fearfully! of all the blind