THE CRADLE. HOW 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 !— He came at last, the tiny guest, Ere bleak December fled; That rosy nest he never prest... Her coffin was his bed. BEFORE SEDAN. 66 The dead hand clasped a letter." SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE. 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. Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain ! If the grief died ;—But no ;— M 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"; Alike on low and lofty tomb,- How strange! The very grasses' growth 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"; |