A peaceful dwelling, once we found,
Where dwelt the bright eyed laughing boy;
Fair blooming sisters clustered round,
Fond parents eyed the group with joy.
But death, who feeds on tears and woe,
Beheld this happy youthful hand;
Then bade his pale companion go
And smite them with his with'ring hand.
The son, just launched on manhood's tide,
The doating father's prop and stay,—