Page:The Emigrants.pdf/43



ONG wintry months are past; the Moon that now Lights her pale crescent even at noon, has made Four times her revolution; since with step, Mournful and slow, along the wave‐worn cliff, Pensive I took my solitary way, Lost in despondence, while contemplating Not my own wayward destiny alone, (Hard as it is, and difficult to bear!) But in beholding the unhappy lot