To think upon her children left behind,
’Mid the doomed multitude, and drew her on
With gentle violence: they cheered the flight
Of the twain daughters, who, aghast with fear,
Were fain to lay their foreheads in the dust,
In palsied helplessness. With the sweet power
Of angel eloquence—with sympathies
That yearned above their poor humanity
In Christ-like tenderness, they hasted still
Their lagging steps.