Yon motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale
Of wo; the husband, parent, is no more.
Contending with disease, he labour'd long,
By penury compell'd; yielding at last,
He laid him down to die; but, lingering on
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw,
Heart-broken quite, his children's looks of want
Veil'd in a clouded smile: alas! he heard
The elder lispingly attempt to still
The younger's plaint, - languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk
Into the arms of Death, the poor man's friend!

The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand
(Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall.
And now they pass into the field of graves,
And now around the narrow house they stand,
And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould.
The turf is spread; uncover'd is each head, -
A last farewell: all turn their several ways.

Woes me! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing breast!
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand
That wont to lead thee home: No more that hand
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page, -
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of wo profound. Haste to the window'd arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.