Still may the manès of thy children rise
To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes;
Still may their voices on the haunted air
In fearful whispers tell thee to despair,
Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume,
Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb!
E’en now my sons shall die—and thou, their sire,
In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire.
Think’st thou I love them not?—’Twas thine to fly—
’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die.