HOME OF THE DUELLIST.
87
"Mother! they say my father's dead;
How did my father die?"
Again the spear-point in her breast!
Again that shriek of pain!
"Child! thou hast riven thy mother's soul:
Speak not those words again."
"Speak not those words again, my son!"
What boots the fruitless care?
They're written wheresoe'er she turns,
On ocean, earth, or air:
They're sear'd upon her shrinking heart,
That bursts beneath its doom:
The duel! and the dead! they haunt
The threshold of her tomb.
Yes, through her brief and weary years
That broken heart she bore,
And on her desolated cheek
The smile sat never more.
