My child! they gave thee to another, That he might pull the sledge for me. My little joy my little pride! In two days more I must have died. I feel I must have died with thee. Oh wind that o'er my head art flying, Too soon, my friends, you went away; I'll follow you across the snow, You travel heavily and slow : In spite of all my weary pain, 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?" And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair 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, And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent '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, 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, 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, And the motion unsettles a tear; The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, And asks of me why I am here. |