Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting,

When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear!

Where shalt thou sink, when lingering echoes ring

The screams of horror in thy tortured ear?

No! let thy bosom melt to Pity’s cry,—

In dust we kneel—by sacred Heaven implore—

O! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die,

Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Say, how shalt thou that barbarous soul assume,