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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";
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."
SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow;
Who bids me, bustling, "God speed," when I go,
'Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,—they say;
A musky haunt of lavender and shells,
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,
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!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.
"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 :
And this stayed in his hand.
"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!"