And I believed ’twould last,—oh, how mad, how blind!
Rest thee, my babe, rest on,—’tis hunger’s cry!
Sleep: for there is no food: the fount is dry!
Famine and cold their wearing work have done;
My heart must break—and thou, my child!—Hush! the clock strikes one!
Hush! ’tis the dice-box—yes! he’s there—he’s there!
For this he leaves me to despair;
Leaves love—leaves truth—his wife—his child—for what?
The gambler’s fancied bliss—the gambler’s horrid lot!
Yet I’ll not curse him,—no: ’tis all in vain;