Like limbs in battle-grounds by warriors left;
A sad community!—whose very bones
Might feel, methinks, a pang to quicken stones,
And make them from the depths of darkness cry,
"Oh! is it naught to you, ye passers by!
When from its earthly house the spirit fled,
Our dust might not be 'free among the dead?'
Ah! why were we to this Siberia sent,
Doom'd in the grave itself to banishment?"
Shuddering humanity asks—"Who are these?