And spent our prayers like nurturing rains upon thee
That thou mayst bloom above our pride and hang
The rose or spring upon our frosty age,
How dost thou droop, till o'er thy cankered wreck
We dew thy fall with tears!... O beauteous bud,
What deadly aconite cast its foul shade
Upon thy blowing grace? My son, my son,
I am no warrior when I think of thee,
Else would my sword be out. A father's eye
Is turned upon thy sin, and all the wrong