His soul alike might perfect grow,
Secure never again to know
Or pain, or sorrow, or that worst
Of ills with which the heart is curst,
A sense of thanklessness to Him
Who framed our being here, a dim
Yearning for nothingness again
To free us from the world's dull chain.
VI.
Around by dusky chiefs arrayed
Now low in earth is Mytah laid:—
While o'er her early bier they hung
Her closing requiem, thus they sung:
Thou art gone from us, Mytah! the salt tears of woe
Are our portion on earth, now thou art laid low:
One sun beheld thee with breath as light
As the soft summer wind at morn that weaves
Its melody 'mid the silvery leaves
Of the pendulous acacia's boughs;
Another viewed thee far and faint
Sighing like the mournful plaint
