On, on he passed, that human flower
Whom men set foot on like a weed;
Yet, waiting for a kinder hour,
Within was many a precious seed.
The beggar's spirit, like his dress,
Might not be wholly fair, indeed,
Yet some bright bud of loveliness,
The germ of many a
a noble deed,
Did we but take the pains to find,
Blooms fresh in each neglected mind.
The simple plucking of that flower
Betrayed a tenderness of thought
Ready to find in every hour
The kindred sweetness that it sought-
A sense of beauty seldom found
Where all within is darkly fraught,
But often trampled to the ground
And mercilessly set at naught
By those who in their selfish
power
Treat as the weed what is the flower.
A MOTHER'S LAMENT.
AKE it wide, make it deep, and with moss be it lined:
His delicate limbs no rude pebbles shall wound;
My babe with its mother in death shall be joined.
Then the lord of my wishes, no longer unkind,
May shed a fond tear on the grief-hallowed ground.
Lay it close by my side,
Lay it close by my side;
'Tis the child of my Edmond, and I was his bride.