Recall the tender name of son!
O would that I for thee had died,
Nor liv'd to wail thy piteous case!
Who dar'd defy those looks of pride,
That mark the chiefs of Wyba's race!
But, O my son, I little knew
What pow'r was in that arm of might!
That weeds of such a baleful hue
The laurel's beauteous wreath should blight!
Yes, my son, the shaft that thee