A DIRGE. 241 



' My little child, my father's age, I mourn, 



* The piteous image fills me with alarm ; 



' Though I die young, and give the senses born 



* For loving nurture to the headsman's arm, 



* While evil-doers sheltered by your laws 



' Drag life with gladness through the ways of crime, 

 ' I heed not that. A keener sorrow draws 



' My spirit downward. In the coming time, 



* My noble father, solace who shall give 



' To your great sorrow; who, firm to your side, 

 ' Will be your comrade onward? Ah, yet live! 

 ' To you our helpless infant I confide. 



* Harden his soul to bear the hurts of fate. 



1 Cherish the grandchild ; in his bloom behold 

 4 Your son again Oh, wish that comes too late! 



' Could but my dying arms you both enfold! 

 ' In vain. I tell my last desires, and fade 



' Departing through eternal shades. Farewell !' 



God covered up the stars when this was said; 



Brutes moaned, and, dropping from the rock, tears fell." 



VOL. II. 



