Through the massy arch of shade By the stern old forest made. Thou! to whose unslumbering eyes All my pathway open lies, By thy Son, who knew distress In the lonely wilderness, Where no roof to that blest head Shelter gave Father! through the time of dread, Save, oh! save! BURIAL OF AN EMIGRANT'S CHILD IN THE FORESTS. SCENE. The banks of a solitary river in an American Forest. A tent under pine-trees in the foreground. AGNES sitting before the tent with a child in her arms, apparently sleeping. Agnes. Surely 'tis all a dream-a fever-dream! The desolation and the agony— The strange red sunrise-and the gloomy woods, And the broad lonely river! all a dream! And my boy's voice will wake me, with its clear, Wild, singing tones, as they were wont to come, Through the wreath'd sweet-brier at my lattice panes, In happy, happy England! Speak to me ! Speak to thy mother, bright one! she hath watch'd All the dread night beside thee, till her brain And her soul faint with longing for thy voice. (Shudderingly) The strange damp thrilling touch! The marble chill! Now, now it rushes back Now I know all !-dead-dead!-a fearful word! My boy hath left me in the wilderness, To journey on without the blessed light In his deep loving eyes-he's gone-he's gone! [Her HUSBAND enters. Husband. Agnes, my Agnes! hast thou look'd thy last On our sweet slumberer's face? The hour is come The couch made ready for his last repose. Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet! If he but left me for a few short days, This were too brief a gazing time, to draw His angel image into my fond heart, And fix its beauty there. And now-oh! now, Never again the laughter of his eye Shall send its gladd'ning summer through my soul Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay! Thou canst not take him from me. Husband. My belov❜d! Is it not God hath taken him? the God That took our first-born, o'er whose early grave Thou didst bow down thy saint-like head, and say, "His will be done!" Agnes. Oh! that near household grave, Under the turf of England, seem'd not half, As these dark woods. It lay beside our home, And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers— The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now, F Together, by thy fair young sister's side, We lay 'midst England's valleys! Husband. Dost thou grieve, Agnes! that thou hast follow'd o'er the deep An exile's fortunes? If it thus can be, Then, after many a conflict cheerily met, Agnes. Forgive, forgive! My Edmund, pardon me! Oh! grief is wild- Hear [Kneeling with the child in her arms. And thou, my God! my soul's cry from this dread wilderness, Oh! hear, and pardon me! If I have made |