250 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE
But no ! man's hate will grudge me stones ;
My fate hath long been sealed ; Scarce will the ploughman let my bones
Lie scattered on his field, Lest they should breed his harvest's bane, Wither his grass, and blight his grain.
��Poor Andre', whose untimely fate
Was blest compared with mine ! In brooding on my lonely state,
How do I envy thine ! For thou wast loved and mourned, at least, Not shunned like some wild, treacherous beast.
O, native land, forever lost !
For thee I heave no sigh, Yet still must think at what dear cost
I'm forced from thee to fly ; Doomed to a traitor's deathless fame. Millions unborn shall curse my name.
My sword is rusty with the gore
Of countrymen and brothers ; I've made full many a sire deplore,
And many weeping mothers ; But this I long have ceased to prize ; In my revenge none sympathize.
Curst day, when to the foe I fled !
Scarce had I left the boat, When each that knew me turned more red
Than his own scarlet coat. The men drawn up before my tent Blushed at the order, " Arms present I "
�� �
