My father's body, weltering on the ground;
A musket tightly clenched within his hand,
Slain by the troopers of my own command;
His whitened locks were streaked with crimson stains,
The same red blood then coursing through my veins.
Close by his side, a form with silvered hair,
Caressed his brow, with dazed, abstracted air;
'Twas she who nursed my being into life,
The highest type of mother and of wife;
Our glances met, yet e'er I framed to speak,