My widowed grandsire claimed a daughter’s care,—
What was it to a soul by passion swayed?
His lonely dwelling now must strangers share,
No daughter’s voice to raise the hymn, or join the prayer.
’Twas on a summer morn I left my home,
Buoyant with hope and long-sought happiness,
Yet did a feeling of misgiving come
When, folded in the old man’s last caress,
He in his trembling accents strove to bless
The child who left him lonely, aged, and blind