And mould to grace ethereal Virtue’s mind.”
STROPHE II.
The land where Heaven’s own hallowed waters play,
Where friendship binds the generous and the good,
Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way,
Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued
In thine own children’s gore? Oh! ere they bleed,
Let Nature’s voice thy ruthless heart appal!
Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed—
The mother strikes—the guiltless babes shall fall!