282 MARGARET L. BAILEY, [1840-50. THE PAUPER CHILD'S BURIAL. Stretched on a rude plank the dead pauper lay ; No weeping ft-iends gathered to bear him away ; His wliite, slender fingers were clasped on his breast, The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest. The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted ; No one cared for him, the desolate-hearted ; In life none had loved him — his pathway, all sear, Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to cheer. No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him, In tones of affection and tenderness blessed him ; For ere his eye gi'eeted the light of the day. His mother had passed in her anguish away. Poor little one ! often thy meek eyes have sought The smile of affection, of kindness un- bought, And wistfully gazing, in wondering sur- prise, That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes. And when in strange gladness thy young voice was heard. As in winter's stern sadness the song of a bird, Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear. Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear. And when the last pang rent thy heart- strings in twain, And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain. No gentle one soothed thee, in love's melt- ing tone. With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown. Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear, With the songs of the angels the dying may hear; And thrillingly tender, amid death's alarms, Was thy mother's voice welcoming thee to her arms. Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarse shroud, reposes In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses ; And while on thy coffin the rude clods are press'd, The good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb to his breast. MEMORIES. Oh ! pleasant are the memories Of childhood's forest home, And oft, amid the toils of life, Like blessed dreams they come : Of sunset hours when I lay entranced. Mid shadows cool and green, Watching the winged insects gleam. In summer's golden sheen. Their drowsy hum was a lullaby To nature's qniet sleeping. While o'er the meadow's dewy breast The evening winds were creeping.
