Vault o’er the plain,—and in the tangled wood,—
Lo! dead Eliza—weltering in her blood!
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds,
“Speak low,” he cries, and gives his little hand,
“Mamma’s asleep upon the dew-cold sand;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake—
Why do you weep! Mamma will soon awake.”
—“She’ll wake no more!” the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturn’d his eyes, and clasp’d his hands, and sigh’d;