There was no mention made of William’s name,
Check’d as she was by pity, love, and shame.
William, who wrought for bread, and never sought
More than the day demanded when he wrought, 500
Was to a sister call’d, of all his race
The last, and dying in a distant place.
In tender terror he approach’d her bed,
Beheld her sick, and buried her when dead;
He was her heir, and what she left was more
Than he required, who was content before.