Page:The Emigrants.pdf/66



And fail; as these green fan‐like leaves of fern Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost. Yet there are those, whose patient pity still Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try With lenient hands to bind up every wound My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go "Right onward7 "—­a calm votary of the Nymph, Who, from her adamantine rock, points out To conscious rectitude the rugged path, That leads at length to Peace!­—Ah! yes, my friends Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave Is Peace—­and pass a few short years, perchance A few short months, and all the various pain I now endure shall be forgotten there, And no memorial shall remain of me, Save in your bosoms; while even your regret