III.

Pale on his couch the sufferer lies, The weary battle-ground of pain: Love tends his pillow; Science tries Her every art, alas! in vain.

The strife endures how long! how long! Life, death, seem balanced in the scale, While round his bed a viewless throng Await each morrow's changing tale.

In realms the desert ocean parts What myriads watch with tear-filled eyes, His pulse-beats echoing in their hearts, His breathings counted with their sighs!

Slowly the stores of life are spent, Yet hope still battles with despair; Will Heaven not yield when knees are bent? Answer, O thou that hearest prayer!

But silent is the brazen sky; On sweeps the meteor's threatening train, Unswerving Nature's mute reply, Bound in her adamantine chain.

Not ours the verdict to decide Whom death shall claim or skill shall save; The hero's life though Heaven denied, It gave our land a martyr's grave.

Nor count the teaching vainly sent How human hearts their griefs may share,— The lesson woman's love has lent, What hope may do, what faith can bear!

Farewell! the leaf-strown earth enfolds Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears, And autumn's golden sun beholds A nation bowed, a world in tears.