O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!O brother's blood! O iron time!What horror have we left undone?Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?What shrine has rapine held in awe?What altar spared? O haste and beatThe blunted steel we yet may drawOn Arab and on Massagete!Bid the lyre and cittern play;Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore;Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida,And brings him safe from far Hispania's shore.Now, returning, he bestowsOn each dear comrade all the love he can;But to Lamia most he owes,By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.