In many a vault, where Death could only claim
The brief inscription of a woman’s name;
Of different ranks, and different degrees,
From daily labor to a life of ease,
(From the rich wife, who through the weary day
Wept in her jewels, grief’s unceasing prey,
To the poor soul who trudg’d o’er marsh and moor,
And with her baby begg’d from door to door,—)
Lie hearts which, ere they found that last release,
Had lost all memory of the blessing, “Peace;”