The LASCAR, XI–XII

And now a Cottage low he sees, The chimney smoke, ascending grey, Floats lightly on the morning breeze And o’er the mountain glides away. And now the Lark, on flutt’ring wings, Its early Song, delighted sings; And now, across the upland mead, The Swains their flocks to shelter lead; The shelt’ring woods, wave to and fro; The yellow plains, far distant, glow; And all things wake to life and joy, All! but the famish’d Indian Boy!

And now the village throngs are seen, Each lane is peopled, and the glen From ev’ry op’ning path-way green, Sends forth the busy hum of men. They cross the meads, still, all alone, They hear the wounded LASCAR groan! Far off they mark the wretch, as he Falls, senseless, from the tall Elm tree! Swiftly they cross the river wide And soon they reach the Elm tree’s side, But, ere the sufferer they behold, His wither’d Heart, is DEAD,—and COLD!