Page:Rosalind and Helen (Shelley).djvu/41

Rh I have no child! my tale grows old With grief, and staggers: let it reach The limits of my feeble speech, And languidly at length recline On the brink of its own grave and mine.

Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty Among the fallen on evil days: 'Tis Crime, and Fear, and Infamy, And houseless Want in frozen ways Wandering ungarmented, and Pain, And, worse than all, that inward stain Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers Youth's starlight smile, and makes its tears First like hot gall, then dry for ever! And well thou knowest a mother never Could doom her children to this ill, And well he knew the same. The will Imported, that if e'er again I sought my children to behold, Or in my birth-place did remain Beyond three days, whose hours were told,