With rage and grief, that blended oath and groan,
I fled her presence—yet I saw her air
Of resignation, and I heard her prayer;
“Now Heaven,” she utter’d, “make his burden light!”
And I, in parting, cried, “Thou hypocrite!”
But I was wrong—she might have meant to pray;
Though not to give her soul—her cash—away.
Of course, my Uncle would the spendthrift shun; 100
So friends on earth I now could reckon none.
One morn I rambled, thinking of the past,