The desolation of his poverty 

 Felt every nerve that at the first great shock 

 Was paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink 

 As from a fresh-cut wound. There was no son 

 To come in beauty of his manly prime 

 With words of counsel and with vigorous hand 

 To aid him in his need, no daughter's arm 

 To twine around him in his weariness, 

 Nor kiss of grandchild at the even-tide 

 Going to rest, with prayer upon its lips. 

 Still a new trial waits. 

 The blessed health 

 Heaven's boon, thro' which with unbow'd form we bear 

 Burdens and ills, forsook him. Maladies 

 Of fierce and festering virulence attack'd 

 His swollen limbs. Incessant, grinding pains 

 Laid his strength prostrate, till he counted life 

 A loathed thing. Dire visions frighted sleep 

 That sweet restorer of the wasted frame, 

 And mid his tossings to and fro, he moan'd 

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