THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE. A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY. Ο UT from the City's dust and roar, You wandered through the open door; Paused at a plaything pail and spade Across a tiny hillock laid; Then noted on your dexter side Some moneyed mourner's "love or pride"; And so,-beyond a hawthorn-tree, Showering its rain of rosy bloom Alike on low and lofty tomb,- How strange! The very grasses' growth The very ivy seemed to turn Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn. No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”— And then, in letters sharp and clear, You read-O Irony austere ! "Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear." A MY LANDLADY. SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow; Who bids me, bustling, "God speed," when I go, 66 'Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,--they say; A musky haunt of lavender and shells, Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays— A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp; A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set; With yellow writing faded underneath. Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair, Wide-collared, raven-haired. "Yes, 'tis my son !" "Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy! "There were two souls washed overboard, they said, "He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know, "Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,-Or would have brought-my poor deserted boy! And these the words the agents sent-they thought "Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more : That's what they wrote. "Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you ;--Grief is for them that have both time and wealth: We can't mourn much, who have much work to do; Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my health!" |