A sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep,
How would the briny waters burst their bounds,
And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no,
She cannot weep. The fountain of her tears
Seems turn’d into a flood of burning fire,
To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around;
There hangs the little dress her boy last wore,
Just as she took it from him; pantaloons,
And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt,
All ready for the wearer. There is, too,