Prophetess, awake, and say,
What Virgins these, in speechless woe,
That bend to earth their solemn brow,
That their flaxen tresses tear,
And snowy veils, that float in air.
Tell me whence their sorrows rose:
Then I leave thee to repose.
Pr.—Ha! no Traveller art thou,
King of Men, I know thee now,
Mightiest of a mighty line——