Puslapio vaizdai




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."



SMALL brisk woman, capped with many a bow;
"Yes," so she says, "and younger, too, than

Who bids me, bustling, "God speed," when I go,
And gives me, rustling, "Welcome," when I come.

"Ay, sir, 'tis cold,—and freezing hard,—they say;
I'd like to give that hulking brute a hit-
Beating his horse in such a shameful way!—
Step here, sir, till your fire's blazed up a bit."

A musky haunt of lavender and shells,
Quaint-figured Chinese monsters, toys, and trays——
A life's collection-where each object tells

Of fashions gone and half-forgotten ways:—

A glossy screen, where wide-mouth dragons ramp;
A vexed inscription in a sampler-frame;
A shade of beads upon a red-capped lamp;
A child's mug graven with a golden name;

A pictured ship, with full-blown canvas set;
A card, with sea-weed twisted to a wreath,
Circling a silky curl as black as jet,

With yellow writing faded underneath.

Looking, I sink within the shrouded chair,
And note the objects slowly, one by one,
And light at last upon a portrait there,—
Wide-collared, raven-haired.

"Yes, 'tis my son !"

"Where is he?" "Ah, sir, he is dead-my boy!
Nigh ten long years ago—in 'sixty-three;
He's always living in my head-my boy!
He was left drowning in the Southern Sea.

"There were two souls washed overboard, they said,
And one the waves brought back; but he was left.
They saw him place the life-buoy o'er his head ;
The sea was running wildly ;—he was left.

"He was a strong, strong swimmer. Do you know,
When the wind whistled yesternight, I cried,
And prayed to God,-though 'twas so long ago,—
He did not struggle much before he died.

“'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
That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy.

“Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more :
This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,—
That other clutched him as the wave went o'er,
That's what they wrote.

And this stayed in his hand.

“Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you ;—
Grief is for them that have both time and wealth:
We can't mourn much, who have much work to do;
Your fire is bright. Thank God, I have my health !”

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