In the lone, quiet tomb where she’s longed to repose,
She rests from life’s cares, from its “burden of woes,”
Beside her loved father, to memory dear—
O’er the graves of these loved, I withhold not the tear.
The Slave of Appetite.
What stings of conscience men will bear,
Their tastes to gratify;
Resolve and re-resolve, and still
Themselves cannot deny.
They say, “I’d give a thousand worlds