Of all my children seems to brood above me
In the dark thunder-clouds! Oh! I have power
And voice unfaltering now to speak my prayer
And my last lingering hope, that thou shouldst win
The father to relent, to save his sons!
Her. By yielding up the city?
Elm. Rather say
By meeting that which gathers close upon us,
Perchance one day the sooner! Is’t not so?
Must we not yield at last? How long shall man