Scene–Michael Howe’s Marsh, near Anstey Barton, Van Diemen’s Land.
Through pathless wilds condemn’d to roam,
Untrod, perchance, by other feet,
No more I find a tranquil home,
Nor dare my fellow-mortals meet.
My gloomy brow is seamed by care,
And deep remorse weighs down my soul;
My days are pass’d in dark despair,
The nights in draining Mis’ry’s bowl!
I cannot sleep; for phantoms dire
Torment my mind with hideous dreams:
I may not kindle cheerful fire,
Lest covert foe discern its gleams.
The glorious sun recedes from sight,
And in the western wave declines;
But vainly spreads the shroud of night
O’er one oppress’d by countless crimes!
For me in vain mild Luna’s ray,
With splendour soft, illumes the scene;
Her beams serve only to betray
My last sad refuge–the ravine!
I know I must submissive bend,
Stern destiny! to my mischance,
And feel that an untimely end
Will terminate life’s fleeting dance.
And yet most gladly would I yield,
Nor seek my worthless life to save;
If I could on the battle-field
Have met my wish–a warrior’s grave!
But darksome visions often cross
My frenzied brain with image dread,
That shows my own deserted corpse
Expos’d to view, without the head.
Anon, prophetic dreams reveal
My hapless relics strew’d around
The flesh has formed the eagle’s meal,
The bones lie scatter’d on the ground!
No requiem’s solemn pealing note
Will rise for me, nor funeral knell–
No friendly hand a stone devote
To mark the spot where Michael fell!
Alas! when I my breath resign,
The wild dog’s bay will be my dirge;
Nor will the priest, with prayer benign,
For my last soul a pardon urge.
Oh, that I never had been born!–
Or, being born, had died while young!
Then had I scap’d, this life forlorn,
Nor been by hopeless mis’ry wrung.
But wherefore thus at Fate repine,
When my complaint is lost in air?
Or, pleading low at Mercy’s shrine,
Echo reverberates–Despair!
W.H.B
Michael Howe: Governor of the Woods 