For some helper in her anguish,
Searching, kindling look, that settled
Into heavy, deadly slumber,
As the waning taper flashes
Once, to be relumin'd never.
Still her weak arm clasp'd the baby,
Rais'd its pining, pinching features,
Faintly cried, "Mein kind! Have pity,
Pity, for the love of Jesus!"
—Yes, forlorn, benighted wanderer,