Robert Anderson Poems
Ah! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
Sweet peace again can never know;
Who, careless, wandering all day long,
Sings to herself this plaintive song:--
``Come Death! thou friend to the distrest,
Srike, strike, at once, this tortur'd breast,
And ease poor Kate, who cannot rest!''
In infancy, her father died:
And she, her mother's only pride,
Was forc'd (hard fate!) at plenty's door
The mite of pity to implore.
But soon, ah! soon an orphan left;
Of ev'ry stay, save Heaven, ...
Estrang'd from all I once held dear,
Reflection turns to pleasures past;
And pond'ring on life's mad career,
At future days I shrink aghast.
A secret pang oft rends my breast,
Soft pity's tear could not remove;
It robs me of night's soothing rest,
And days of pain it makes me prove.