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Poem	Hard by the road, where on that little mound The high grass rustles to the passing breeze, The child of Misery rests her head in peace. Pause there in sadness. That unhallowed ground Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on Sleep on, poor Outcast! lovely was thy cheek, And thy mild eye was eloquent to speak The soul of Pity. Pale and woe-begone Soon did thy fair cheek fade, and thine eye weep The tear of anguish for the babe unborn, The helpless heir of Poverty and Scorn. She drank the draught that chill'd her soul to sleep. I pause and wipe the big drop from mine eye, Whilst the proud Levite scowls and passes by.
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