"My father! by this waining lamp
Thy form I faintly trace:--
Yet sure thy brow is cold, and damp,
And pale thy honour'd face.

In vain thy wretched child is come,
She comes too late to save!
And only now can share thy doom,
And share thy peaceful grave!"

Soft, as amid the lunar beams,
The falling shadows bend,
Upon the bosom of the streams,
So soft her tears descend,

"Those tears a father ill can bear,
He lives, my child, for thee!
A gentle youth, with pitying care,
Has lent his aid to me.

Born in the western world, his hand
Maintains its hostile cause,
And fierce against Britannia's band
His erring sword he draws;

Yet feels the captive Briton's woe;
For his ennobled mind,
Forgets the name of Britain's foe,
In love of human kind.