A father and a mother.

[Pg 11]

O piety of hand and knee,

Of lips and bow'd head!

O ye who see a soul set free—

Free, when the heart is dead!

There is no rest but in the grave;

Thither my wasted eyes

Turn for the only home they have,

Where my true love lies.

There alongside his clay-cold corse

I pray that mine may rest;

I'll warm him with my lover's force

And feed him at my breast:

I'll nurse him as I nurst his child,

The child he never saw,

The stricken child that never smil'd.

And scarce my milk could draw.

Poor girls, whose argument's the same

For seeking or denying,

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