But where the grave is I’ll not tell.
I do not know the others’ fate,
A pauper’s grave may them await.
The fabric that my hands embossed,
While Fancy figured high the cost,
May trail, to-night, some filthy street
Where sin and shame together meet,
And the loved strains from my heart’s lyre
Be sung around an outcast’s fire.
They may attain a higher sphere,