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OW steadfastly she'd worked at it!
How lovingly had drest With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest !
How longingly she'd hung on it !
It sometimes seemed, she said, There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
He came at last, the tiny guest,
Ere bleak December fled ; That rosy nest he never prest
Her coffin was his bed.
“ The dead hand clasped a letter."
What was the white you touched,
There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died ;Message or wish, may be ;Smooth the folds out and see.
Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled Only the tremulous
Words of a child ;Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops.
Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night, His-her dead father's—kiss;
Tries to be bright, Good to mamma,
and sweet. That is all. 'Marguerite.”
Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain ! If the grief died ;-But no ;-Death will not have it so.
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.
A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY.
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