Where are they now, the ones that did forebear?

Did they embrace in love?—It matters not.

What force of fate caused them to leave you there

And do they think of him that chance begot?

What hands once rocked the helpless newborn cradle?

Whose breast or bottle mollified the cries?

Who left you on the stoop beneath that steeple,

Alone and cold beneath blank heaven’s eyes?

Yet you survived against bleak biased odds

There so to thrive despite that mark of shame,

To lead the course of every bastard’s cause

And carve in stone—the wonders of your name.

On hope alone sometimes the die are cast—

Sweet life’s a gift with never why to ask.