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 Oh sons, my sons, for you there is a home

And city where, forsaking wretched me,

Ye shall still dwell and have no mother more:

But I, an exile, seek another land,

Ere I have joyed in you and seen you glad,

Ere I have decked for you the nuptial pomp,

The bride, the bed, and held the torch aloft.

Oh me! forlorn by my untempered moods!

In vain then have I nurtured ye, my sons,

In vain have toiled and been worn down by cares,

And felt the hard child-bearing agonies.

There was a time when I, unhappy one,

Had many hopes in you, that both of you

Would cherish me in age and that your hands,

When I am dead, would fitly lay me out—

That wish of all men: but now lost indeed

Is that sweet thought, for I must, reft of you,

Live on a piteous life and full of pain:

And ye, your dear eyes will no more behold

Your mother, gone into your new strange life.

Alas! Why do ye fix your eyes on me,

My sons ? Why smile ye on me that last smile?

Alas! What must I do? For my heart faints,