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These are vain words.

Have you no children?—fear you not to bring The lightning on their heads?—In your own land Doth no fond mother, from the tents, beneath Your native palms, look o'er the deserts out, To greet your homeward step?—You have not yet Forgot so utterly her patient love— —For is not woman's, in all climes, the same?— That you should scorn my prayer!—Oh Heaven! his eye Doth wear no mercy!

Then it mocks you not. I have swept o'er the mountains of your land, Leaving my traces, as the visitings Of storms, upon them!—Shall I now be stay'd! Know, unto me it were as light a thing, In this, my course, to quench your children's lives, As, journeying through a forest, to break off The young wild branches that obstruct the way With their green sprays and leaves.

Are there such hearts Amongst thy works, oh God?