They set their heels upon it and stamped it out.

Not always does the distant age restore

The balance, or posterity renew

The laurel on the cold dishonoured brow

Unjustly robbed and blindly beaten down.

He laboured on in blindness. At his side

One faithful daughter, labouring with her pen,

As he dictated, wrote, month after month,

Year after year; and, when her father died,

She saw him tossed into the general grave,