And the pallid smoke from the chimney crawls
Away from its mean abode;
It cannot rise to heaven, but falls
Adown the damp and mouldering walls,
And hurries beneath the sod.
Oh, I have thought that a mother's love
Was the fondest passion yet,
As she breathes the breath of her infant babe—
Still, a mother may forget;
But the miser's throne is his gold alone,