Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/141

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Or the wing'd bark to youth, that his free course May be o'er hills and seas; and weep thou not In thy forsaken home, for the bright world Lies all before him, and be sure he wastes No thought on thee!

Not so! it is not so! Thou dost but torture me!—My sons are kind, And brave, and gentle.

Others too have worn The semblance of all good. Nay, stay thee yet; I will be calm, and thou, shalt learn how earth, The fruitful in all agonies, hath woes Which far outweigh thine own.

It may not be! Whose grief is like a mother's for her sons?

My son lay stretch'd upon his battle-bier, And there were hands wrung o'er him, which had caught Their hue from his young blood!

What tale is this?