From all your glasses glaring on me,—
A monster who steals on its prey so slow,
That it has your life before you know
Or dream of its power: this was the curse
That sat at my fire-side, robbed my purse,
Poisoned my life, and left me to be
A drifting log on the world’s wide sea,
Ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft;
No kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left.
Treasure!—yes; for I had three sons,