The aged mother with full-shrunk, fleshless limbs

When told, her son, throwing all weapons down,

Had basely fled the field, quick stung with shame

And wrath exclaimed: "This is no son of mine,

This false and craven heir of warriors

All brave and true. From fear of death indeed

Thus had he run away, I will cut off

These befouled breasts of mine that gave him suck

And fed with milk. But yet my heart me tells

It cannot be. "Then straight she snatched a sword

And mad with rage ran to the bloody field,

Where scouring thro’ heaps of the mangled dead

Found at last and beheld with joy her son's

Dismember'd corse covered with grisly wounds, –

With joy greater than when she gave him birth–

And glad and proud she then her home regained.