Weak and wearied with his journey, there the lone survivor stooped,
And the disappointment bowed him and his heart with sadness drooped,
And he rose and raked a hollow with his wasted, feeble hands,
Where he took and hid the hero, in the rushes and the sands;
But he, like a brother, laid him out of reach of wind and rain,
And for many days he sojourned near him on that wild-faced plain;
Whilst he stayed beside the ruin, whilst he lingered with the dead,
Oh! he must have sat in shadow, gloomy as the tears he shed.
. . . . .
Where our noble Burke was lying -- where his sad companion stood,
Came the natives of the forest -- came the wild men of the wood;
Down they looked, and saw the stranger -- he who there in quiet slept --
Down they knelt, and o'er the chieftain bitterly they moaned and wept:
Bitterly they mourned to see him all uncovered to the blast --
All uncovered to the tempest as it wailed and whistled past;
And they shrouded him with bushes, so in death that he might lie,
Like a warrior of their nation, sheltered from the stormy sky.
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