But whence arose that solemn call?
Yon bloody phantom waves his hand,
And beckons me to deeper gloom!
Rest, troubled form! I come —
Some unknown power my step impels
To horror's secret cells.
"For thee I raise this sable pall,
It shrouds a ghastly band:
Stretch'd beneath, thy eye shall trace
A mangled regal race!
A thousand suns have roll'd, since light
Rush'd on their solid night!
See, o'er that tender frame grim Famine hangs,
And mocks a mother's pangs!
The last, last drop which warm'd her veins
That meagre infant drains,
Then gnaws her fond, sustaining breast!
Stretch'd on her feeble knees, behold
Another victim sinks to lasting rest;
Another yet her matron arms would fold,
Who strives to reach her matron arms in vain —
Too weak her wasted form to raise,
On him she bends her eager gaze;
She sees the soft imploring eye
That asks her dear embrace, the cure of pain —
She sees her child at distance die!
But now her stedfast heart can bear,
Unmov'd, the pressure of despair.
When first the winds of winter urge their course
O'er the pure stream, whose current smoothly glides,
The heaving river swells its troubled tides;
But when the bitter blast with keener force
O'er the high wave an icy fetter throws,
The harden'd wave is fix'd in dead repose."