Of that one feeling pour’d through all its depths,
Than monarchs with their hosts? Am I not come
To die with these my children?
Abd. Doth thy faith
Bid thee do this, fond Christian? Hast thou not
The means to save them?
Elm. I have prayers, and tears,
And agonies!—and he, my God—the God
Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour
To bow the crested head—hath made these things