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Doth thy faith Bid thee do this, fond Christian?—Hast thou not The means to save them?

I have prayers, and tears, And agonies!—and he—my God—the God Whose hand, or soon or late, doth find its hour To bow the crested head—hath made these things Most powerful in a world where all must learn That one deep language, by the storm call'd forth From the bruised reeds of earth!—For thee, perchance, Affliction's chastening lesson hath not yet Been laid upon thy heart, and thou may'st love To see the creatures, by its might brought low, Humbled before thee.[She throws herself at his feet. Conqueror! I can kneel! I, that drew birth from princes, bow myself E'en to thy feet! Call in thy chiefs, thy slaves, If this will swell thy triumph, to behold The blood of kings, of heroes, thus abased! Do this, but spare my sons!

Thou shouldst not kneel