And ope'd the door to one whose face
Bore sorrow's past and present trace.
"Why, Martha," thus began the boy,
"Why look so pale!—What makes you cry!"
"Oh! Master Henry—oh!" she said,
"My child, my poor blind child is dead!
Struck, struck by lightning!" Then on the floor
She shuddering fell, to rise no more!
Of friends, of fortune, long bereft,
With only that one heartstay left—
That son to whom she'd given birth
Was all that bound her soul to earth:
For him she'd labour'd long, had borne
This world's privations and its scorn!
For those who know her history tell
She "loved not wisely but too well."
That sightless pledge, her only joy,
Her poor, her blind, neglected boy!
Now all was ended—this sad blow
Fill'd to the brim her cup of woe.
Enough of life was left to tell
The death of him she lov'd so well:
This latest, saddest grief express'd,
Her broken spirit sank to rest.
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