Page:Tales and Historic Scenes.pdf/176

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Think'st thou I love them not?—'Twas thine to fly— 'Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate—the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave."

Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children's hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye.