She nursed me with skill and tenderness,
And recovered me from loathsomeness
But the day has come and the hours draw nigh,
When I, Louis Marin, must surely die
I write down my crime, that soon or late
The world may know Captain Hudson's fate
I write of our crime and our sufferings,
Of vengeance that follows, remorse that stings
Messmates remember though crime is done,
In the lonest spot beneath the sun,
Where footstep of man has never trod,
It's under the eye of an avenging God.
He comes near, a Swift Witness, with intent
That they who sow crime shall reap punishment.
FORSAKEN.
Beside the open window she is lying,
Through which comes softly in the balmy air,
And fans her wasted cheek; but slowly dying,
She seeth not that autumn's finger fair
Tinges the golden landscape everywhere.
She seeth not the glory of the maples,
That in their crimson robes surround her home;
Nor the rich red of the ripe clustering apples
In the old orchard, where can never come
Her flying feet to stoop and gather some.
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