Wakeful guard 'gainst nightly spoil,
Companion of the day;
Cheerful partner of my toil,
Thou'rt call'd, and must obey.
What meant that last, that wistful gaze,
When at thy masters' tread,
Thy little strength was meant to raise
The drooping, dying head?
Was it in hope his essayed skill
E'en yet might bring relief?
His power accords not with his will,
He could but vent his grief.
Or was it meant as to commend
Thy new born young bereft?
Could substituted care befriend
A progeny thus left?
Th' Equator's sun—weak ill-timed brood!
Has drain'd your fountain dry;
And here no artificial food
Can nature's store supply.
Poor victim of a torrid clime,
Where e'en to breathe is pain,
Cut off in all thy vigour's prime,
Thou'rt gone;—regret is vain.
The wise may think 'tis weak in me,
To grieve;—so let it pass:
But yet I feel, in losing thee,
I've lost a friend—Poor Lass.
Sunday, 25th.—Read church service and a sermon as usual. Robert has absented himself on this and the preceding Sunday, without any good or apparent cause; I must remonstrate;—strongly
