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. 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. Ο 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. |