No child-like eyes to point above⁠—

No hand to soothe the ruffled brow,

Alas! how much I miss thee now!

Pity the wretch, who, doomed to roam

From day to day this lower sphere,

Unloved by any—loving none,

Still wasting on from year to year,

As lonely as some twinkling orb

That trembles in the distant sky,

A watcher mid the hosts of night