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460 And yet I will not hide, though direly pained,

The misery of my lot,

Not while in life I dwell.

Ah me! from whom, my friends, companions dear,

From whom that thinketh well,

Shall I a word in season hope to hear?

Ο ye, who fain would cheer,

Leave me, oh, leave me here,

For these my woes as endless shall be known;

Nor will I cease to make my wailing moan,

And weep full many a tear.

And yet of mere good will,

As mother fond and true,

I bid thee this vain toil no more pursue,

Still breeding ill on ill.

Nay; but what bounds are set to baseness here?

Come, tell me this, I pray,

How can it e'er be right

Those who are dead to slight?

Where did that law appear?

May I ne'er walk in honour in their way,

Nor if aught good be mine,

Dwell with it happily,

Should I the wings confine

That rise with bitter cry,

And bid them cease to pay

Due reverence to my father past away!

If he who dies be but as dust and nought,

And poor and helpless lie,

And these no vengeance meet for what they wrought,