Chapter V

If e’er I see a child’s sweet face,
And in its pretty, joyous pride,
My own lost innocents’ retrace,
The Hoarse Voice grumbles at my side.
Oh! you, who lust for length of days,
Dare not to envy my career!
That sweet child-face on which I gaze
Shall long be dust while I am here!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.