Antistrophe II

Say, how shalt thou that barb'rous soul assume? Undamp'd by horror at the daring plan, Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom? Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?

When o'er each babe you look a last adieu, And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep, Shall no fond feeling beat, to Nature true, Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep?

When the young suppliants clasp their Parent dear, Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,— Ay! thou shalt melt;—and many a heart-shed tear Gush o'er the harden'd features of despair!

Nature shall throb in every tender string,— Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny;— Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling The blade, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye!