Whate’er thy doom, will bear it all—
Drink of the bitter cup of gall,
Nor once complain of thee!
Will poverty avail to chide,
Or sickness bend the soul of pride,
Or social scorn, still evil-eyed—
Have, then, thy will of me!
But spare the woman and the child;
Let me not see their features mild,
Distorted—hear their accents wild,