Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,
Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!
I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife—
A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life—
But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast?
Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.
[AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.]
A PASTORAL REPORT.
One Sunday morning—service done—
'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,