Life all around him glows—and he must die?
Yet midst his people, undismay’d, he throws
The gage of vengeance for a thousand woes;
Vengeance that, like their own volcano’s fire,
May sleep suppress’d a while—but not expire.
One softer image rises o’er his breast,
One fond regret, and all shall be at rest!
“Alas, for thee, my mother! who shall bear
To thy sad heart the tidings of despair,
When thy lost child is gone?”—that thought can thrill