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... POETRY. I

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POETRY. I THE WIDOW. See, there she totters next the mournful bier, Containing; ail once held by her so dear, Almost unconscious where or how she goes, Her bosom heaving with tumultuous throes, While down her checks, deep furrowed o'er wh grief, The big tear rolls, but fails to bring relief. The mournful group, see, slowly winds along, Amid the city's busy, thoughtless, throng (For ,1<) it is, the sad and solemn sccne Is scarcely noticed by the young and green Disturbs not age, nor him intent to thrive Heedless of death while they themselves survive.) Arrived at length within the hallowed ground, Where friend nnd roc and strangers mix around She starts to hear the (leath-hdl-see the crowd, And wildly gazing,—Hark, she shrieks aloud, Thøn fainting falls, deaf to hor children's cries; The world a waste, and adamant the skies. Support the widow, Thou whose potent arm, Can death himself and fell disease disarm Be Thou to her a husband, friend, indeed, In this, and every time, of sorrow, need; A father to her helpless children prove, And love them with an everlasting love. Restored at length to consciousness and care, For life and death exhorted to prepare, Reluctantly the gaping tomb she leaves, For the departed, hark, how loud she grieves: To home again, along the well-kr.own street, She turns her chilly, half-unwilling, feet- But ah that home once teeming with delight, No louger uow the willow's heart invites All, all, is drear and gloomy dark despair Reigns paramount in every corner there Nor ray of hope breaks through the fearful cloud, And pity helps not from the gaping crowd. G. J. Iluxciruro.

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