Volume 4 — THE EARLY ARBUTUS.

Give me water, give air, give me light! Oh, as life in my heart ebbs away, I pine through the dim, chilly night, I long for the sun's kindly ray! Even I, a poor little Arbutus! I was plucked from my beautiful earth, And my soul it then quitted its form; What since has my life e'er been worth? Ah, would I had never been born! Thus I sigh, a poor little Arbutus! Now to man in my anguish I cry: Ah, but what for a sigh does he care? To heaven I now raise my eye, And mourn in my futile despair! Even I, a poor, dying Arbutus! Ah, a life for a life—it is just! But a life for a nothing, oh, cruel! Still low must I languish in dust? And is there for me no renewal? Ah, for me, poor, broken Arbutus! Into elements now I resolve, Yet to life I still cling with each breath; As slowly away I dissolve, Life's sweeter as closer to death! Unto me, but a little Arbutus! Too precocious the life which I bore, Which I drew sweetly in with each breath! The fulness of life did no more Than ripen a fruitage for death, Within me, a too early Arbutus!