Hold, — "stop thy Story,"— cries the weeping King,
Thy horrid Tale has left a mortal Sting;
My Soul tho' practis'd in the Paths of Woe,
Grows sick and staggers at this mighty Blow:
From its cold Fountain Life forgets to run;
Oh  — Oh  my Son,
Eternal Shade has seal'd thy chearful Eyes;
And on the Ground thy breathless Beauty lies:
Curst be the Hand that all my Hopes beguil'd,
And left a Parent to lament his Child:
Without a Tear let none his Story tell,
But curse the Forest where my Darling fell:
While these wan Eyes with lasting Sorrows run,
Lost to the World, and Strangers to the Sun;
Let milder Songs attend his noon-tide Ray,
For mine will best become the closing Day,
While round my Lyre afflicted Fathers throng,
And Orphans listen to the mournful Song.