“In many a village churchyard’s simple grave,
Where all unmarked the cypress branches wave;
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 labour 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 trudged o’er marsh and moor;
And with her baby begged from door to door,)