My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
Yet is it dead, and I remain.

All stiff with ice the ashes lie;

And they are dead, and I will die.

When I was well, I wished to live,
For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;

But they to me no joy can give,

No pleasure now, and no desire.

Then here contented will I lie;

Alone I cannot fear to die.

Alas! you might have dragged me on

Another day, a single one!

Too soon despair o'er me prevailed;

Too soon my heartless spirit failed;

When you were gone my limbs were stronger,
And Oh how grievously I rue,
That, afterwards, a little longer,
My friends, I did not follow you!
For strong and without pain I lay,
My friends, when you were gone away.

My child! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took,
On me how strangely did he look!
Through his whole body something ran,
A most strange something did I see ;
-As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me.
And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
Oh mercy! like a little child.

My little joy! my little pride!

In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;

I feel I must have died with thee.

Oh wind that o'er my head art flying,
The way my friends their course did bend,
I should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send.

Too soon, my friends, you went away;
For I had many things to say.

I'll follow you across the snow,
You travel heavily and slow:
In spite of all my weary pain,
I'll look upon your tents again.
My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.

For ever left alone am I,

Then wherefore should I fear to die?

My journey will be shortly run,

I shall not see another sun,

I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken child! if I

For once could have thee close to me,

With happy heart I then would die,

And my last thoughts would happy be. I feel my body die away,

I shall not see another day.

THE CONVICT.

THE glory of evening was spread through the west; -On the slope of a mountain I stood,

While the joy that precedes the calm season of

rest

Rang loud through the meadow and wood.

"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair? " In the pain of my spirit I said,

And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair
To the cell where the convict is laid.

The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate Resound; and the dungeons unfold:

I pause; and at length, through the glimmering

grate,

That outcast of pity behold.

His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,

And deep is the sigh of his breath,

And with steadfast dejection his eyes are intent

On the fetters that link him to death.

'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze,

That body dismiss'd from his care;

Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays

More terrible images there.

His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, With wishes the past to undo;

And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him, descried,

Still blackens and grows on his view.

When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field,

To his chamber the monarch is led,

All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, And quietness pillow his head.