ode, sacred to the memory of mrs. oswald of auchencruive
dweller in yon dungeon dark,
hangman of creation! mark,
who in widow-weeds appears,
laden with unhonour'd years,
noosing with care a bursting purse,
baited with many a deadly curse?
strophe
view the wither'd beldam's face;
can thy keen inspection trace
aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace?
note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows;
pity's flood there never rose,
see these hands ne'er stretched to save,
hands that took, but never gave:
keeper of mammon's iron chest,
lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest,
she goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!