Chapter LII

“Grieve not, my Mary!--Children, do not weep!
Though yonder verdant lawns, and opening flowers,
And groves whose shades the murmuring streamlets sweep,
All perish for us now,--yet on far shores,
Perchance by yon blue bay or rolling deep,
Far from white brethren, mid barbarian powers,
Your father’s hands another glade may form,--
Another roof to shield you from the storm.”