He,—the childless sire,
Last of his race, and lonely as the pine
That crisps and blackens 'neath the lightning shaft
Upon the cliff, with such a rushing tide
The mountain billows of his misery came,
Drove they not Reason from her beacon-hold?
Swept they not his strong trust in Heaven away?
List,—list,—the sufferer speaks.
"The Lord who gave
Hath taken away,—and blessed be His name."