"God grant," said I, "she may be soothed by their kindness. Has she no attendant, John?"
"Yes sir, but my poor master said it was best not to trouble her when she is in her strange way."
I wound my way back slowly and mournfully from this house of sorrow. I have since passed from scene to scene; I have witnessed the agonies of many a breaking heart, and have been myself the subject of much sorrow and anguish; but never did I witness blight and desolation equal to that brought on the house of McCarthy by the murderous hand of Raymond.
The dove of my bosom lies bleeding, The hopes I once cherished are fled, I gaze on their ruins unheeding, Earth's brightest is low with the dead.
The eye that with rapture was beaming, Is clouded in silence and gloom, And those locks that like sunlight were gleaming, Are damp with the dews of the tomb.
The smile that I sought as a treasure, Is gone with the being who gave To this bosom its throbbings of pleasure, And my heart is with her in the grave.
Above her the wild flowers are growing, They were nursed by the thoughts of her love, They are wet by the tears that are flowing, And shall flow, till I greet her above.
When storms howl around me and dark tempests roll, And Nature seems mov'd and convulsed to each pole-- When billows o'er billows tempestuously foam, How dear is the thought of my lov'd native home.
The Laplander's breast, cold and dreary as night, Beats wildly with transport, and throbs with delight, When mem'ry, sad mem'ry, once chances to roam, And recalls the past joys of his lov'd native home.
The soldier who combats at tyranny's call, In far distant climes, where grim terrors appal, At the last beat of life, when he ceases to roam, While dying, remembers his dear native home.
Grim slav'ry's poor victim, long destin'd to mourn O'er the ruins of peace that will never return, Views with heart-bursting grief, old Ocean's white foam, And dies as he thinks of his lov'd native home.
Misfortune's sad child, while he wanders afar, Still guided by Destiny's mysterious star, Heaves a sigh, while visions of intellect roam, And paint on his mem'ry the sweets of his home.
When sorrows the cheek of remembrance bedew, And disease, death, and misery glare dreadful to view, How grateful, when far from our country we roam, Are the long cherish'd thoughts of our lov'd native home.