116 

 FUNEREAL SKETCHES. 



NO. XXXIII. 



THE OLD MAN'S BROTHERS. 



I AM sole relic of a line 



Whose course is with the past ; 



The rest found early graves — and mine 

 Of five must be the last : 



Yet only one — she died at birth — 



Will sleep with me in native earth. 



Our eldest — his my father's skill 



To drain the cavemed mine, 

 Gold fettered to her sordid will 



Where El Dorados shine : 

 Their crests the giant palm-trees wave, 

 Perennial, o'er my brother's grave. 



Another from the phial drank 



For Freedom's martyr-land, 

 When Egypt battled with tlie Frank — 



He died by Pylos' strand : 

 They laid him, by a moss-grown pile. 

 On dark Sphacteria's lonely isle. 



Our youngest fell, an utter wreck 



In spirit and in form, 

 Alas ! on our fair fame a speck. 



He sleeps where howls the storm. 

 Death from the convict struck his chain, 

 Bermuda, in thy wild domain ! 



Where that fair infant seemed to pay 



Our first fruits to the tomb, 

 I love at silent eve to stray 



Beneath the umbrageous gloom ; 

 And ask the night dews if they weep. 

 Like me, for where their kindred sleep. 



