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I breathed it not o'er kingly tombs, But where my children lay, And the startled vulture, at my step, Soar'd from their precious clay. I stood amidst my dead alone— I kiss'd their lips—I pour'd, In the strong silence of that hour, My spirit on my sword.

The roof-tree fall'n, the smouldering floor, The blacken'd threshold-stone, The bright hair torn, and soil'd with blood, Whose fountain was my own; These, and the everlasting hills, Bore witness that wild night; Before them rose th' avenger's soul, In crush'd affection's might.

The stars, the searching stars of heaven, With keen looks would upbraid,