A father mourn'd in accents wild,

His offspring lost—his only child—

Who might, in after years, have spread

A ray of honour round his head,

Nor thought, as stone on stone he threw,

His child would meet a stranger's view.

But, lo! upon its clay-cold breast,

The Arctic Robin rais'd its nest,

And rear'd its little fluttering young,

Where Death in awful quiet slept,