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My child! they gave thee to another,
—As if he strove to be a man,
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,
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 glory of evening was spread through the west;
—On the slope of a mountain I stood,
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,
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,
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 consi
nsumed, 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,
And quietness pillow his head.
But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze,
And conscience her tortures appease, '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, If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims,
The wretch on his pallet should turn,
While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain,
From the roots of his hair there shall start
And terror shall leap at his heart.
But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye,
And the motion unsettles a tear;
And asks of me why I am here.