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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
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,”—
And then, in letters sharp and clear, You read-O Irony austere !— "Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear."
SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow;
Who bids me, bustling, "God speed," when I go,
"Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,—they say;
A musky haunt of lavender and shells,
Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—
A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set;
With yellow writing faded underneath.
Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
"Yes, 'tis my son !"
"Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy!
"There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
"He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know,
“'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought,— Or would have brought-my poor deserted boy!
And these the words the agents sent-they thought
“Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more :
And this stayed in his hand.
“Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you ;—