Page:Tale of Paraguay - Southey.djvu/32

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Alas, it was no medicable grief Which herbs might reach! Nor could the juggler's power With all his antic mummeries bring relief. Faith might not aid him in that ruling hour, Himself a victim now. The dreadful stour None could escape, nor aught its force assuage. The marriageable maiden had her dower From death; the strong man sunk beneath its rage, And death cut short the thread of childhood and of age.

No time for customary mourning now; With hand close-clench'd to pluck the rooted hair, To beat the bosom, on the swelling brow Inflict redoubled blows, and blindly tear The cheeks, indenting bloody furrows there, The deep-traced signs indelible of woe; Then to some crag, or bank abrupt, repair, And giving grief its scope infuriate, throw The impatient body thence upon the earth below.