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My child! they gave thee to another,
That he might pull the sledge for me.
My little joy! my little pride!
Oh wind that o'er my head art flying,
Too soon, my friends, you went away;
For I had many things to say.
I'll follow you across the snow,
Then wherefore should I fear to die?
My journey will be shortly run,
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,
I shall not see another day.
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
"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
I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate,
His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,
'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,
Still blackens and grows on his view.
When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field,
All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield,
But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze,
'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose;
In the comfortless vault of disease.
When his fetters at night have so press'd on his limbs,
That the weight can no longer be borne,
While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain,
A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain,
But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye,