159 H THE CRADLE. OW steadfastly she'd worked at it! With all her would-be-mother's wit That little rosy nest! How longingly she'd hung on it !— He came at last, the tiny guest, Her coffin was his bed. BEFORE SEDAN. "The dead hand clasped a letter." SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE. HERE, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence,— Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves: So this man's eye is dim ;- 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 Ο 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, Alike on low and lofty tomb,- How strange! The very grasses' growth Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn. |