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139 The Wanderer's Grave


Away from home, away from friends,
And all the heart holds dear,
A weary wand'rer laid him down,
Nor kindly aid was near.
And sickness preyed upon his frame,
And told its tale of woe,
While sorrows marked his pallid cheek,
And sank his spirit low.

Nor waiting friends stood near his couch,
A healing to impart;
Nor human voice spoke sympathy 
To soothe his aching heart;
The stars of night his watchers were,
His fan the wide wind's breath;
And while they sighed their hollow moans,
He closed his eyes in death.

No willing grave received the corpse,
Of this poor lonely one;
His bones, alas, were left to bleach
And moulder 'neath the sun.
The wild wolf howled his requim,
The rude wind danced his dirge;
And e'er anon, in mournful chime,
Sighed forth the mellow surge.


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