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Ha!—ſhould I meet him in his duſky round—
Late in theſe woods I heard his murd'rous ſound—
Still the deep war-whoop vibrates on mine ear,
And ſtill I hear his tread, or ſeem to hear.
Hark, the leaves ruſtle! what a ſhriek was there!
'Tis he! 'tis he! his triumphs rend the air.
Hold, coward heart, I'll anſwer to the yell,
And chace the murderer to his gory cell.
Savage!—but oh! I rave—o'er yonder wild,
E'en at this hour he drives my only child;
She, the dear ſource and ſoother of my pain,
My tender daughter, drags the captive chain.
Ah my poor Lucy! in whoſe face, whoſe breaſt,
My long-loſt Emma liv'd again confeſt,
Thus robb'd of thee, and every comfort fled,
Soon ſhall the turf infold this wearied head;
Soon ſhall my ſpirit reach that peaceful ſhore,
Where bleeding friends unite, to part no more.
Then ſhall I ceaſe to rue the fatal morn
When firſt from Auburn's vale I roam'd forlorn.
He ſpoke—and frantic with the ſad review,
Prone on the ſhore his tottering limbs he threw.
Life's crimſon ſtrings were burſting round his heart,
And his torn ſoul was throbbing to depart;
No pitying friend, no meek-ey'd ſtranger near
To tend his throes or calm them with a tear.
Angels of grace, your golden pinions ſpread,
Temper the winds and ſhield his houſeleſs head.
Let no rude ſounds diſturb life's awful cloſe,
And guard his relicks from inhuman foes.
O haſte, and waſt him to thoſe radiant plains,
Where fiends torment no mare, and love eternal reigns.
FINIS.
