Oh, sacred source of sympathetic tears!
Say, hast thou fled the Earth, whose tottering pole
Can ill sustain its weight of grief and fears?
Is dried your fountain, choked by crimson biers?
Oh, human anguish! Yet, by man’s accord,
The day shall come, when he who as in years
Gone by shall dare produce thee—King or Lord—
A Pariah-brand shall wear, than Demons more abhorred!
XXVI.
Still havoc, plunder reigns. Where is thy sword,