Was it strange that warriors should raise a very woman's cry
For help and hope to Athor's ears when such as she must die?
Small boot of bearded leeches here! not all Arabia's store
Of precious balms can purchase her one noon of sunshine more!
Hush! hush! she speaks!—the pale, drawn lips murmur a parting speech!
Ah, silence! let no syllable be lost! so whispers each.
That gray crow on the Palace wall which croaks and will not rest,
An archer fits his arrow and splits the evil breast!
"Father! Great Father!—it is hard,—to die so very young!
