LINES, SUGGESTED BY A HAWTHORN.
His eyes rest on the farm-house near,
For one is there than life more dear;
The casement moves—she'll soon be here'
His darling maid.
'Tis winter, and the hedge is bleak
What leads that group such shade to seek
Their home stood where ascends the reek
In yonder vale.
The mother's tears are silent shed,
Above her children's roofless bed
The father strides with measured tread,
Where frets the gale.
A chariot moves in stately show,
There, near the highway, hedges grow,
The peasants, as they pass, bend low.
To him sits there.
Behind a thorn a flash is seen,
The air resounds a musket's din;
A corse that chariot within.
Finds gory bier.