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,-
You came upon it-suddenly.

How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;

The very ivy seemed to turn

Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.

No name; you traced a “6,”—a “7,”—
Part of "affliction" and of "Heaven";

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;
"Yes," so she says, "and younger, too, than
some,"

Who bids me, bustling, "God speed," when I go,
And gives me, rustling, "Welcome," when I come.

66

'Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,--they say;
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit-
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit."

A musky haunt of lavender and shells,

Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays—
A life's collection-where each object tells
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways :-

A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;

A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set;
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,

With yellow writing faded underneath.

Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—

Wide-collared, raven-haired.

"Yes, 'tis my son !"

"Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy!
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head-my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.

"There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head;
The sea was running wildly ;—he was left.

"He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know,
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,-though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.

"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
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.

"Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more :
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,-
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
And this stayed in his hand.

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!"