Classic Poem

O children, children, you have still a city,
A home, where, lost to me and all my woe,
You will live out your lives without a mother.
But I—lo! I am for another land,
Leaving the joy of you: to see you happy,
To deck your marriage-bed, to greet your bride,
To light your wedding-torch, shall not be mine!
O me! thrice wretched in my own self-will!
In vain then, dear my children, did I rear you;
In vain I travailed, and with wearing sorrow
Bore bitter anguish in the hour of childbirth.
Yea, of a sooth, I had great hope of you,
That you would cherish my old age and deck
My corpse with loving hands and make me blessed
Mid women in my death. But now, ah me!
Hath perisht that sweet dream. For long without you
I shall drag out a dreary doleful age!
And you shall never see your children more
With your dear eyes: for all your life is changed.
Woe! woe!
Why gaze you at me with your eyes, my children?
Why smile your last sweet smile? Ah me! ah me!
What shall I do? My heart dissolves within me,
Friends, when I see the glad eyes of my sons.
I cannot! No: my will that was so steady,
Farewell to it. They too shall go with me:
Why should I wound their sire with what wounds them,
Heaping tenfold his woes on my own head?
No, no, I shall not! Perish my proud will!
Yet whence this weakness? Do I wish to reap
The scorn that springs from enemies unpunisht?
Dare it I must! What craven fool am I,
To let soft thoughts flow trickling from my soul!
Go, boys, into the house: and he who may not
Be present at my solemn sacrifice—
Let him see to it! My hand shall not falter.
Ah! ah!
Nay, do not, O my heart, do not this thing!
Suffer them, O poor fool; yea, spare thy children.
There in thy exile they will gladden thee.
Not so: by all the plagues of nethermost hell
It shall not be that I, that I should suffer
My foes to triumph and insult my sons!
Die must they: this must be, and since it must,
I, I myself will slay them, I who bore them!
So it is fixt, and there is no escape.
Even as I speak, the crown is on her head,
The bride is dying in her robes, I know it.
But since this path most piteous I tread,
Sending them forth on paths more piteous far,
I will embrace my children. O my sons!
Give, give your mother your dear hands to kiss!
O dearest hands and mouths most dear to me,
And forms and noble faces of my sons!
Be happy even there: what here was yours,
Your father robs you of. O delicate scent!
O tender touch and sweet breath of my boys!
Go, go, go—leave me! Lo, I cannot bear
To look on you: my woes have overwhelmed me!