By strangers left upon a lonely shore,
Unknown, unhonoured, was the friendless dead,
For child to weep, or widow to deplore,
There never came to his unburied head:—
All from his dreary habitation fled.
Nor will the lanterned fisherman at eve
Launch on that water by the witches’ tower,
Where hellebore and hemlock seem to weave
Round its dark vaults a melancholy bower,
For spirits of the dead at night’s enchanted hour.
They dread to meet thee, poor unfortunate!
Whose crime it was, on life’s unfinished road
To feel the stepdame buffetings of fate,
And render back thy being’s heavy load.
Ah! once, perhaps, the social passions glowed
In thy devoted bosom—and the hand
That smote its kindred heart, might yet be prone
To deeds of mercy. Who may understand
Thy many woes, poor suicide, unknown?—
He who thy being gave shall judge of thee alone.