Though his own mouth would speak if I were silent,
As speak the skies when tempests chasten earth.
But here, my lords, a lonely woman kneels;
A weary mother weeping her lost son.
You know how all my better years were spent
In that dark wild where wander minds dethroned.
When the dear world came back to me, my cry
Was for my babe—no more a babe, but up
To manhood shot as in a single hour.
And as the hunger takes some starving wretch,