Nor less unpitied, young Alastor bleeds; In vain his youth, in vain his beauty pleads; In vain he begs thee, with a suppliant’s moan, To spare a form, an age so like thy own! Unhappy boy! no prayer, no moving art, E’er bent that fierce, inexorable heart! While yet he trembled at his knees, and cried, The ruthless falchion oped his tender side; The panting liver pours a flood of gore That drowns his bosom till he pants no more.