The father's bowels yearn, the man's will bends,
Reply is apt. Our tears on tremble, hearts
Big with a benediction, wait the word
Shall circulate through the city in a trice,
Set every window flaring, give each man
O' the mob his torch to wave for gratitude.
Pronounce then, for our breath and patience fail!"
I will, Sirs: but a voice other than yours
Quickens my spirit. "Quis pro Domino?
Who is upon the Lord's side?" asked the Count.