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BURIAL OF THE EMIGRANT'S BABE.
"Near the Catholic cemetery, about three miles from the city of New York, I met one of the most singular and affecting funeral processions, which it has ever been my fortune to witness. It was a lone mother, with her little boy by her side, and the coffin containing the body of her dead infant in her arms. She was a German, and could speak but a few words of English. She presented a paper, which contained the regular order necessary for every interment in the public vault of the Roman Catholic cemetery. But had she been ever so skilled in our language, it was evident that she had that grief within, which does not speak. Her eyes filled, and sobs choked her utterance as she said, 'I lost meine baby-four week.”
WILLIAM L. STONE.
I MUSED amid the place of graves,
With its hoarse minstrelsy of storms,
Sank to its rest away.
The long grass gave a rustling sound,
And lo! a lonely woman came,
No stately hearse, or sable pall,
Upon the passer-by;
But nature's grief, so oft unknown
No foot of neighbour, or of friend,
Nor the sweet German dirge breathed out,
To bless the clay that came to sleep
And emulate that triumph strain
Which gives the soul to God.
Poor babe! that grieving breast, from whence Thy transient life-stream flowed,
Doth press the coffin, as it goes
On to the last abode;
Those patient arms that sheltered the e,
With many a tender prayer,
In sad reluctance yield thee back
80 BURIAL OF THE EMIGRANT'S BABE.
No priestly hand the immortal scroll
Of heavenly hope displayed,
As in the drear and darkened vault
And wildly mid the stranger shade
Of that sequestered dell,
The lofty language of the Rhine
But grasping fast the mourner's skirts,
A boy, who thrice the spring had seen,
And wistful on his mother's face
For sympathy's o'erwhelming sob
And wondering sorrow strongly stirred
Yea, still that trace of wo must gleam
But with so strong and deep a power That lonely funeral stole
Among the pictured scenes that dwell
For ever in the soul,
That often, when I wander near,
And sad winds moaning low, Starting, I seem once more to hear That wailing mother's wo.
BY W. ROSCOE, ON BEING FORCED TO PART WITH HIS LIBRARY FOR THE BENEFIT OF HIS CREDITORS.
As one who destined from his friends to part,
Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,