THE WANDERER'S GRAVE. 93 



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We buried him upon the bank of the stream that wends its course 

 through the valley. Darkness, with its sable pall, had enveloped the 

 scene as we covered him from view, and left the winds and the wolves to 

 howl his requiem, until the voice of spring shall bid the wild-flowers 

 grow and bloom upon his grave. 



This lovely valley had before this witnessed the death-scene of one who 

 left his bones to bleach within its limits. His name was Scott, from whom 

 the neighboring eminences derive their present appellation. 



Attracted by the enchanting beauty of the place and the great abundance 

 of game the vicinity aff >rded, he wandered hither alone and made it his 

 temporary residence. While thus enjoying the varied sweets of solitude, 

 he became the prey of sickness and gasped his life away; — and none 

 were there to watch over him, but the sun by day and the stars by night; 

 or fan his fevered brow, save the kindly breezes ; or bemoan his hapless 

 fate, other than the gurgling stream that sighed its passing sympathy be- 

 side the couch of death! 



There is a mournful interest and a touching melancholy associated witli 

 this simple story, that must thrill with emotion the finer feelings of our 

 nature. The incident, which had so recently transpired, contributed to en- 

 hance these gloomy sensations to an extent I never before experienced. I 

 felt — I cannot tell how. I felt like giving vent to my feelings in verse. — 

 Yet, I cannot write poetry. I made tlie attempt, however, and here is the 

 result before the reader : 



THE WANDERER'S GRAVE. 



Away from friends, away from home, 



And all the heart holds dear, 

 A weary wand'rer laid him down, — 



Nor kindly aid was near. — 



And sickness prey'd upon his frame 



And told its tale of woe, 

 While sorrow mark'd his pallid cheeks 



And sank his spirit low. 



Nor waiting friends stood round his couch 



A healing to impart, — 

 Nor human voice spoke sympathy, 



To sooth his aching heart. 



The stars of night his w^atchers were, — 



His fan the rude winds' breath, 

 And while they sigh'd their hollow moans, 



He closed his eyes in death. 



Upon the prairie's vast expanse 



This weary wand'rer lay ; 

 And far from friends, and far from home,' 



He breath'd liis life away ! 



