And dark hair steep’d in blood! They bore him past:
Mother!—I saw his face! Oh! such a death
Works fearful changes on the fair of earth,
The pride of woman’s eye!
Elm. Sweet daughter, peace!
Wake not the dark remembrance; for thy frame—
Xim. There will be peace ere long. I shut my heart,
Even as a tomb, o’er that lone silent grief,
That I might spare it thee!—But now the hour
Is come, when that, which would have pierced thy soul,