Urged me to labour, and renew’d my strength. 
I strove for patience as a sinner must,
Yet felt th’ opinion of the world unjust: 
There was my lover, in his joy esteem’d,
And I, in my distress, as guilty deemed;
Yet sure, not all the guilt and shame belong
To her who feels and suffers for the wrong: 
The cheat at play may use the wealth he’s won,
But is not honour’d for the mischief done;
The cheat in love may use each villain art,
And boast the deed that breaks the victim’s heart. 
   “Four years were past; I might again have found
Some erring wish, but for another wound: 
Lovely my daughter grew, her face was fair,
But no expression ever brighten’d there;
I doubted long, and vainly strove to make
Some certain meaning of the words she spake;
But meaning there was none, and I survey’d
With dread the beauties of my idiot-maid. 
Still I submitted;—­Oh! ’tis meet and fit
In all we feel to make the heart submit;
Gloomy and calm my days, but I had then,
It seem’d, attractions for the eyes of men: 
The sober master of a decent trade
O’erlook’d my errors, and his offer made;
Reason assented:  —­true, my heart denied,
‘But thou,’ I said,’shalt be no more my guide.’ 
   “When wed, our toil and trouble, pains and care,
Of means to live procured us humble share;
Five were our sons,—­and we, though careful, found
Our hopes declining as the year came round: 
For I perceived, yet would not soon perceive,
My husband stealing from my view to grieve: 
Silent he grew, and when he spoke he sigh’d,
And surly look’d, and peevishly replied: 
Pensive by nature, he had gone of late
To those who preach’d of destiny and fate,
Of things foredoom’d, and of election-grace,
And how in vain we strive to run our race;
That all by works and moral worth we gain
Is to perceive our care and labour vain;
That still the more we pay, our debts the more remain;
That he who feels not the mysterious call,
Lies bound in sin, still grov’ling from the fall. 
My husband felt not:  —­our persuasion, prayer,
And our best reason, darken’d his despair;
His very nature changed; he now reviled
My former conduct,—­he reproach’d my child: 
He talked of bastard slips, and cursed his bed,
And from our kindness to concealment fled;
For ever to some evil change inclined,
To every gloomy thought he lent his mind,
Nor rest would give to us, nor rest himself could find;
His son suspended saw him, long bereft
Of life, nor prospect of revival left. 
   “With him died all our prospects, and once more
I shared th’ allotments of the parish poor;
They took my children too, and this I know
Was just and lawful, but I felt the blow: 
My idiot-maid and one unhealthy boy
Were left, a mother’s misery and her joy. 
   “Three sons I follow’d to the grave, and one —
Oh! can I speak of that unhappy son?