Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/116

 father oft to me,

While yet ,an infant, said:—

"Poor boy! his lot will be

To fare on bitter bread."

mother o'er me sigh'd,

And said—"Poor child! for him,

Life's cup will be supplied

From parch'd and scanty stream."

oft my brother's tongue

Said—"Luckless boy! take heed,

For, O! thou hast been flung

Upon a sorry steed."

sister too replied—

All love, all kindness she:

"The sabre at his side

Hangs not becomingly."

friends cried.—"O, beware,

And ne'er to battle go:

For pain and death are there,

Thou may'st not meet a foe."