The babe of an unborn calamity,

Ere its due time to be deliver-ed.

Dead sorrow and sorrow unborn so blent their pain,

That which more present was were hardly said,

But both more NOW than any Now can be.

My soul like sackcloth did her body rend,

'Let pass the chalice of this coming dread,

Or that fore-drained O bid me not re-drain!'