The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain.

Of a mother that mourns her children slain:

66

'I have made the crags my home, and spread

On their desert backs my sackcloth bed;

I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks,
And drunk the midnight dew in my locks;

I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain
Of the burning eyeballs went to my brain.
Seven blackened corpses before me lie,

In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky.
I have watched them through the burning day,
And driven the vulture and raven away;
And the cormorant wheeled in circles round,
Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground.
And when the shadows of twilight came,
I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame,
And heard at my side his stealthy tread,
But aye at my shout the savage fled:
And I threw the lighted brand to fright
The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night.

"Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons,
By the hands of wicked and cruel ones;
Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime,
All innocent, for your father's crime.
He sinned-but he paid the price of his guilt
When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt;

When he strove with the heathen host in vain,
And fell with the flower. of his people slain,
And the sceptre his children's hands should sway
From his injured lineage passed away.

"But I hoped that the cottage-roof would be A safe retreat for my sons and me;

And that while they ripened to manhood fast,

They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the

past;

And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride,

As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side. Tall like their sire, with the princely grace

Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face.

Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart,
When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart!

When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed,
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid,
And clung to my sons with desperate strength,
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length,
And bore me breathless and faint aside,
In their iron arms, while my children died.
They died-and the mother that gave them birth
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth.

"The barley-harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height,

And the reapers were singing on hill and plain,
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain.
But now the season of rain is nigh,

The sun is dim in the thickening sky,

And the clouds in sullen darkness rest

Where he hides his light at the doors of the west.
I hear the howl of the wind that brings
The long drear storm on its heavy wings;
But the howling wind and the driving rain
Will beat on my houseless head in vain :
I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air."

Great Barrington, 1824.

"United States Literary Gazette," April 1, 1824.

I

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

SAW an aged man upon his bier,

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow

A record of the cares of many a year;—

Cares that were ended and forgotten now.

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,
And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud.

Then rose another hoary man and said,

In faltering accents, to that weeping train:
"Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead?
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain,

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,
Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast.

"Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,
And leaves the smile of his departure, spread

O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.

"Why weep ye then for him, who, having won
The bound of man's appointed years, at last,
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed;

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?

"His youth was innocent; his riper age

Marked with some act of goodness every day; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, Faded his late declining years away.

Meekly he gave his being up, and went

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent.

"That life was happy; every day he gave
Thanks for the fair existence that was his;
For a sick fancy made him not her slave,
To mock him with her phantom miseries.

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him.

"And I am glad that he has lived thus long,

And glad that he has gone to his reward; Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong, Softly to disengage the vital cord.

For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye

Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die."