And now the Sun begins to rise Above the Eastern summit blue; And o’er the plain the day-breeze flies, And sweetly bloom the fields of dew! The wand’ring wretch was chill’d, for he Sate, shiv’ring in the tall Elm tree; And he was faint, and sick, and dry, And bloodshot was his fev’rish eye; And livid was his lip, while he Sate silent in the tall Elm tree— And parch’d his tongue; and quick his breath, And his dark cheek, was cold as Death! XI. And now a Cottage low he sees, The chimney smoke, ascending grey, Floats lightly on the morning breeze And o’er the mountain glides away. And now the Lark, on flutt’ring wings, Its early Song, delighted sings; And now, across the upland mead, The Swains their flocks to shelter lead; The shelt’ring woods, wave to and fro; The yellow plains, far distant, glow; And all things wake to life and joy, All! but the famish’d Indian Boy! XII. And now the village throngs are seen, Each lane is peopled, and the glen From ev’ry op’ning path-way green, Sends forth the busy hum of men. They cross the meads, still, all alone, They hear the wounded LASCAR groan! Far off they mark the wretch, as he Falls, senseless, from the tall Elm tree! Swiftly they cross the river wide And soon they reach the Elm tree’s side, But, ere the sufferer they behold, _His wither’d Heart, is_ DEAD,—_and_ COLD! THE _WIDOW’s HOME_. Close on the margin of a brawling brook That bathes the low dell’s bosom, stands a Cot; O’ershadow’d by broad Alders. At its door A rude seat, with an ozier canopy Invites the weary traveller to rest. ’Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within, The sweets of joy domestic, oft have made The long hour not unchearly, while the Moor Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast Swept with impetuous wing the mountain’s brow!