Where the wild beasts find shelter, tho' I can find none!
But 'tis not my suff'rings, thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn;
Your faith proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,—
Alas! I can make it no better return!
Epistle To Hugh Parker
In this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;