Strophe II

The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play, Where Friendship binds the generous and the good, Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way, Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued

In thine own children's gore?—oh! ere they bleed, Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal! Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed— The mother strikes—the guiltless babes shall fall!

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting, When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear, Where shalt thou sink, when ling'ring echoes ring The screams of horror in thy tortur'd ear?

No! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry,— In dust we kneel—by sacred Heaven implore— O! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die, Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!—