That sound of home I never heard again,
And then "drive on—drive faster—yet more fast."
I raised my weeping head—Oh! I had looked my last.
One of those precious moments in which remorse overtakes the victims of crime, is thus finely drawn:
Months passed: one evening, as of early days,
When first my bosom thrilled his voice to hear,
And thought upon the gentle words of praise
Which forced my lips to smile, and chased my fear:
I sang—a sob, deep, single, struck my ear;
Wondering, I gazed on Arthur, bending low—