No husband's kindly hand,
     No loving child was near,
To offer her their aid, or shed
     A sypathizing tear.

For now the ripened cane
     Was ready for the knife,
And not a slave cold be spared to aid
     His mother or his wife.

She is struggling now with death,
     Deep was that dying groan,
For a corpse now lies on the cold clay floor,
     The soul, set free, has flown.

The planter, walking by,
     Chanced at the door to stop,
And he cursed his luck, "there was one hand less
     To gather in the crop."

O, Jesus! thou has said,
     "The poor your care shall be:
Who visit ot the poor and sick,
     They do it not to me."