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THE LAST OF THE TASMANIANS.
his bride's garland. The concern awakened for his condition comes too late. The bell but tolls his knell, and the Æolian music of the she-oak is his hymn and requiem. We cover our faces while the deep and solemn voice of our common Father echoes through the soul, "Where is thy brother?"
Oh! if he were here, how kindly would we speak to him! Would we not smile upon that dark sister of the forest, and joy in the prattle of that piccaninny boy? And would not the Christian cheek, once pale with reproaches and tearful with penitence, glow with delight to tell of a found Saviour to the lost savage? But now the burthen of each saddened spirit is.
Would I had loved him more!
THE END.
LONDON: R. CLAY SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
