Like death’s dread mansion, this allows not place
For joyful meetings of a kindred race.
Is not the matron there, to whom the son
Was wont at each declining day to run?
He (when his toil was over) gave delight,
By lifting up the latch, and one “Good night.”
Yes, she is here; but nightly to her door
The son, still lab’ring, can return no more.
Widows are here, who in their huts were left,
Of husbands, children, plenty, ease bereft;