Who is dead, and hath left her his all,—his blessing, and a name unstained.
And friends, with busy zeal, that their purses be not taxed,
Place the sad mourner in a home, poor substitute for that she hath lost.
A stranger among strange faces she drinketh the wormwood of dependence;
She is marked as a child of want: and the world hateth poverty.
Prayer is not heard in that house; the day she hath loved to hallow
Is noted but by deeper dissipation, the riot of luxury and gaming:
And wantonness is in her master's eye, and she hath nowhere to flee to;
She is cared for by none upon earth, and her God seemeth to forsake her.
Then cometh, in fair show, the promise and the feint of affection,