Of choral praise suspended in dismay,
When the polluted shrine of Syria’s plains
With clouds of incense dimm’d the blaze of day?
Or did ye veil indignantly your eyes.
While demons hail’d the pomp of human sacrifice?
XXIV.
And well the powers of evil might rejoice,
When rose from Tophet’s vale the exulting cry,
And, deaf to Nature’s supplicating voice,
The frantic mother bore her child to die!