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These women, clad in sable weeds,*
That stand upon the hillock here.
While o'er the wave yon vessel speeds
Freighted with all they hold most dear —
Think not they need our pitying tears !
Though want may force the loved away,
And they be left for weary years,
Yet they have learned to trust and pray.
Soon each will seek her quiet cot,
And there to God, on bended knee,
Unmurmuring at her lonely lot,
Commit the wanderer o'er the sea ;
Then peaceful sleep, then patient rise
To labors fresh, fresh sacrifice.
Even now the last dark form is gone,
And Wolfe, the aged, stands alone.
More wasted still that stooping frame.
The pallor on his brow the same.
* The women of these islands always wear a mourning dress while
their friends are at sea.
