Where shall the king now close his eyes?
Where but in the tomb of woes.
'Tis there thy stony couch is laid,
And there the wearied king may rest—
But will not Penda's threats invade
The quiet of the monarch's breast?
No—my son shall quell his rage—
What have I said?—ah me, undone;
Ne'er shall the parent's snowy age