EPITAPH ON THE UNMATED.
No chosen spot of ground she called her own.
In pilgrim guise o’er earth she wandered on;
Yet always in her path some flowers were strown.
No dear ones were her own peculiar care,
So was her bounty free as heaven’s air;
For every claim she had enough to spare.
And, loving more her heart to give than lend,
Though oft deceived in many a trusted friend,
She hoped, believed, and trusted to the end.