Who there looks on thee in the purity
Of her devoted youth, and o’er whose name
No blight must fall, and whose pale cheek must ne’er
Burn with that deeper tinge, caught painfully
From the quick feeling of dishonour—Speak!
Unfold this mystery! By thy sons——
Elm. My sons!
And canst thou name them?
Gon. Proudly! Better far
They died with all the promise of their youth,