Undamped by horror at the daring plan?
Hast thou a heart to work thy children’s doom?
Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?
When o’er each babe you look a last adieu,
And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep,
Shall no fond feeling beat to Nature true,
Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep?
When the young suppliants clasp their parent dear,
Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,—
Ay! thou shall melt;—and many a heart-shed tear