Page:The Vow of the Peacock.pdf/254

Rh

For fire, and blood, and death, had left On every thing their trace.

The lake was covered o'er with weeds, Choked was our little rill, There was no sign of corn or grass, The cushat's song was still:

Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap Was every cottage round;— I listened, but I could not hear One single human sound:

I spoke, and only my own words Were echoed from the hill; I sat me down to weep, and curse The hand that wrought this ill.