No sign of horror, for ’twas Heaven’s decree!
He strove to speak—but I had done the work
Of wrath too well; yet in his last deep moan
A dreadful something of familiar sound
Came o’er my shuddering sense. The moon look’d forth,
And I beheld—speak not!—twas he—my son!
My boy lay dying there! He raised one glance
And knew me—for he sought with feeble hand
To cover his glazed eyes. A darker veil
Sank o’er them soon. I will not have thy look