The lightning on their heads? In your own land
Doth no fond mother, from the tents beneath
Your native palms, look o’er the deserts out,
To greet your homeward step? You have not yet
Forgot so utterly her patient love—
For is not woman’s in all climes the same?—
That you should scorn my prayer! Oh heaven! his eye
Doth wear no mercy!
Abd. Then it mocks you not.
I have swept o’er the mountains of your land,