Followeth thy footsteps, and around thy brow
Hovers a thick impenetrable cloud,
Which, to some hearts, is Hope's sad funeral shroud.
Beside the infant on its cradle bed,
The mother watches thro' the hour of night;
Hope hath not quite her lonely spirit fled,
Tho' o'er her first-born babe hath passed the blight
Of fell disease: wait, wait one moment more,
Thy hand has touched it, Death, and hope is o'er.
Thou turn'st the hall of revelry to gloom,