There was a fascination in that sight Which seemed to conquer and unnerve me, quite; A sense of horror, not akin to fear, Possessed my being as we galloped near; All sorts of evil pictures filled my mind, As one who seeks, yet dreads what he may find; As we drew nearer, I remember well, With hissing crash the roof collapsed and fell; Dismounting, I the premises surveyed, And viewed the havoc and destruction made; Crushed by the disappointment, the suspense, And failure of my planned deliverance, I moved about with apprehensive tread, To seek my relatives, alive or dead; And, near a haystack's smouldering ruins found My father's body, weltering on the ground; A musket tightly clenched within his hand, Slain by the troopers of my own command; His whitened locks were streaked with crimson stains, The same red blood then coursing through my veins. Close by his side, a form with silvered hair, Caressed his brow, with dazed, abstracted air; 'Twas she who nursed my being into life, The highest type of mother and of wife; Our glances met, yet e'er I framed to speak, She started up, then with a piercing shriek Fell back, expiring on the speechless clay Of him whose life so lately ebbed away. * * * * * As campfires gleamed, and heaven's orb, serene With borrowed radiance, o'erflowed the scene, Within a grave, beneath the crimson sands, I laid them both to rest with my own hands. In lieu of prayer, or solemn dirge, was heard The twittering cadence of the mockingbird, Uniting with the sentry's muffled tread, Which seemed a measured requiem for the dead, As, side by side, in death's eternal sleep, I laid them tenderly, nor paused to weep, For feelings which in tears find no relief Had dried the very fountainheads of grief. I shaped a double mound above their clay, Planted a wooden cross,--and went my way. * * * * * That night I tore the medals from my breast, Resigned my sword and started for the West." VIII. THE STORY OF AN EXILE Such was the tragic story told, And, tired from standing on his feet, This patriarch so gray and old Relit his pipe and took a seat. As one, inert and overtaxed From strenuous toil, he soon relaxed Into that dull composure, which Fatigue accords to poor and rich. The observation could detect No levity nor disrespect, Nor through his story was there heard Remark or interruptive word, His voice and bearing as he spoke, Admitting not of jest or joke. The common feeling seemed to be Respect and deepest sympathy.