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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.
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.
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,—
How strange! The very grasses' growth
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn.