At the sight my brain was fired,
And afresh my heart's wounds bled;
Still I gazed:the spark expired-
Nature seem'd extinct :-I fled.-

Fled; and, ere the noon of day, Reach'd the lonely goat-herd's nest, Where my wife, my children, layHusband-Father-think the rest."

PART VI.

The Wanderer informs the Shepherd, that, after the example of many of his Countrymen flying from the Tyranny of France, it is his intention to settle in some remote province of America.

SHEPHERD.

"WANDERER, whither wouldst thou roam;

To what region far away

Bend thy steps to find a home,

In the twilight of thy day?"

WANDERER.

"In the twilight of my day
I am hastening to the West;
There my weary limbs to lay
Where the sun retires to rest.

Far beyond the Atlantic floods,
Stretch'd beneath the evening sky,

Realms of mountains, dark with woods,
In Columbia's bosom lie.

-Thither, thither would I roam;
There my children may be free:
I for them will find a home,
They shall find a grave for me.

Though my fathers' bones afar
In their native land repose,
Yet beneath the twilight star
Soft on mine the turf shall close.

Though the mould that wraps my clay

When this storm of life is o'er,

Never since creation lay

On a human breast before ;

Yet in sweet communion there,
When she follows to the dead,
Shall my bosom's partner share
Her poor husband's lowly bed.

ALBERT'S babes shall deck our grave, And my daughter's duteous tears

Bid the flowery verdure wave

Through the winter-waste of years."

SHEPHERD.

"Long before thy sun descend,
May thy woes and wanderings cease;
Late and lovely be thine end;
Hope and triumph, joy and peace!

As our lakes, at day's decline,
Brighten through the gathering gloom,
May thy latest moments shine
Through the night-fall of the tomb."

THE MOLE-HILL.

TELL me, thou dust beneath my feet,
Thou dust that once hadst breath!

Tell me how many mortals meet

In this small hill of death?

The mole that scoops with curious toil

Her subterranean bed,

Thinks not she ploughs a human soil,

And mines among the dead.

But, O! where'er she turns the ground,

My kindred earth I see :

Once every atom of this mound

Lived, breathed, and felt, like me.

Like me these elder-born of clay
Enjoy'd the cheerful light,
Bore the brief burden of a day,
And went to rest at night.

Far in the regions of the morn,
The rising sun surveys
Palmyra's palaces forlorn,
Empurpled with his rays.

The spirits of the desert dwell
Where eastern grandeur shone,
And vultures scream, hyænas yell
Round Beauty's mouldering throne.

There the pale pilgrim, as he stands,
Sees, from the broken wall,
The shadow tottering on the sands,
Ere the loose fragment fall.

Destruction joys, amid those scenes,
To watch the sport of Fate,
While Time between the pillars leans,
And bows them with his weight.

But towers and temples, crush'd by Time, Stupendous wrecks! appear

To me less mournfully sublime

Than the poor Mole-hill here.

Through all this hillock's crumbling mould

Once the warm life-blood ran;

Here thine original behold,

And here thy ruins, Man!

Methinks this dust yet heaves with breath;

Ten thousand pulses beat;

Tell me,-in this small hill of death,

How many mortals meet?