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XXVI.

Seven-Childed Widow! are thy boys at home?
Why, singly, seek'st thou food on wastes of stone?
With coward outrage Kinglingdom hath sown
Even the desert! and they dare not come,
Though they are starving! Therefore, doth she roam
God's keeper'd Moor, eager to sell for bread
Its only crop. But, Tyrant-sparing Heav'n!
Down come the hills—a sea of fire and foam!
The small speck covereth Light, as with a shroud.
Thou art a Night of clouds, thou little cloud!
Who into lightning, with his heavy tread,
Stamps the blind darkness, o'er the mountains spread?
Where is the Mother of the starving seven?
She shrieks! Deaf Deluge seizeth her. She's dead.