CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety.--Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for One; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.--Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort--vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead!
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