Beholds the child as its own pillow pale,
And hears the father’s groan and mother’s piercing wail?
Who calls thy aspect terrible? Do they
Who gaze on brows the lightning stoops to scathe?
Or darker still, on those who fall a prey
To jealousy’s unsmotherable wrath?
Or they who walk in War’s ensanguined path
And hear the prayers and curses of distress?
These call thy aspect terrible! oh Death!
More terrible, by far, let those confess,