Page:Tale of Paraguay - Southey.djvu/32

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 Alas, it was no medicable grief
 Which herbs might reach! Nor could the juggler's power
 With all his antic mummeries bring relief.
 Faith might not aid him in that ruling hour,
 Himself a victim now. The dreadful stour
 None could escape, nor aught its force assuage.
 The marriageable maiden had her dower
 From death; the strong man sunk beneath its rage,
And death cut short the thread of childhood and of age.


 No time for customary mourning now;
 With hand close-clench'd to pluck the rooted hair,
 To beat the bosom, on the swelling brow
 Inflict redoubled blows, and blindly tear
 The cheeks, indenting bloody furrows there,
 The deep-traced signs indelible of woe;
 Then to some crag, or bank abrupt, repair,
 And giving grief its scope infuriate, throw
The impatient body thence upon the earth below.