Ah, deep, and many is the good man’s sigh
O’er thy hard sufferings, poor Humanity!
What form is that, which wanders up and down,
Some poor unfriended orphan of the town!
Heavy indeed hath ruthless sorrow prest
Her cold hand at her miserable breast!
Worn with disease, with not a friend to save,
Or shed a tear of pity o’er her grave;
The sickly lustre leaves her faded eye;
She sinks in need, in pain, and infamy!