When the Union is severed, and liberty's blessings Withheld from the sons of Columbia, once free; When bloodshed and war, and famine d'stress them, Remember the warning! and think upon me. When this mighty city shall crumble to ruin, And sink as a millstone, the merchants undoing; The ransom'd, the highway of Zion pursuing,-- Sing this lamentation, and think upon me. LAMENTATION BY P. P. PRATT. IN MEMORY OP HIS DEPARTED WIFE, WHO DIED, MARCH 25, 1837. The joys of home I once have tasted, All its pleasures called my own; Friendship's purest pleasures graced it, But they're gone,--I'm left alone, Now no more that smile of gladness Welcomes me at my return; But a lonely, solemn sadness: Oh she's gone,--I'm left alone! Oft when clouds of care and trouble, Like a tempest o'er me roll'd, A look, a word, an act of kindness, Served to calm my troubled soul. When by pain and sickness wasted, Oft she lingered near my bed; Fed me, nursed me as an angel, Washed my feet or bathed my head. When to western wilds I wandered, Rear'd in solitude my cot; Clear'd away the gloomy forest,-- She with flowers adorned the spot. When by ruthless mobs was driven, Wounded, bleeding, from my home, Wandering in a land of strangers, Pilgrim like she with me roamed. When in distant climes I wander'd, To bear glad tidings to mankind; She shared my toils and travels gladly, Or would consent to stay behind. Returning from a distant journey, She always met me with a smile; Wash'd my feet and changed my raiment, And bade me rest from all my toil. But now alone I'm left to wander, From land to land, from sea to sea; And none except my only offspring Will scarce inquire what comes of me. And e'n to him I'll seem a stranger, While he is reared by other hands; He'll hardly feel I am his father, When I return from distant lands. What is it then for which I linger, Still in this dark and dreary waste? Where nothing centers my affection, Where others' joys I cannot taste. If I must still consent to tarry, 'Twill be to bear another's grief: To save mankind from sin and sorrow, And bring the broken heart relief. To comfort those who mourn in Zion, And bid ten thousand others come; Where the widow, orphan, virgin, And the poor may find a home. FUNERAL HYMN. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. PRATT. Creation speaks with awful voice-- Hark! 'tis a universal groan Re-echoes through the vast extent Of worlds unnumbered called to mourn. For sickness, sorrow, pain and death, With awful tyranny have reigned; While all eternity has shed Her tears of sorrow o'er the slain.