That they had fallen by the stranger's hand;
And there was mourning deep throughout the land.
Thus far have I essayed to trace
The lives, the loves, of that dark race
(Chequered the tale, and fraught with ill
For frail is bliss, life human still),
Heirs of the land where I must pine
Reflecting that it is not mine.
My tale is done: and I would fain
Believe, though humble be my strain,
A pitying tear may dim some tender eye,
Some breast may heave a sympathetic sigh.
But yet it matters not—to me
It hath fulfilled kind ministry;
To purest fancies it hath won me
From sorrowing thoughts that crowded on me;
Affection, homeward prone to veer
It hath compelled with magic wand;
Beguiling the sad truth that here
I am a stranger in the land.
Thou mild moon! pouring down each night