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OW 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 !—
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.

He came at last, the tiny guest,
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest

Her coffin was his bed.

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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.

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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,—
You came upon it—suddenly.

How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
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";

And then, in letters sharp and clear, You read-O Irony austere !"Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear."

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