ALFRED BURNETT. Alfred Burnett, though born in England in 1825, was bred a Western man, his parents having emigrated to Cincinnati when he was a lad. Mr. Burnett is well known in Cincinnati as a Confectioner, and has a reputation throughout the West as a successful Lecturer on Elocution, and delineator of character. He has been editor and publisher of several ephemeral periodicals, and has contributed poems to the Louisville Journal, Godeifs Lady's Booh, the Daily Nonpareil, and other Cincinnati joui'nals. In 1847 he published a pamphlet entitled "Magnetism Made Easy," and in 1859 a little volume of poems and recitations, original and selected. THE SEXTON'S SPADE. All battered and worn is the sexton's spade, And soon 'twill be thrown aside ; It hath lasted well, and many a grave Hath it spaded full deep and wide ! And many a tale could that old spade tell— Tales of the church-yard drear, Of the silent step, and the doleful knell, Of the coffin, shroud, and bier ! It could tell of children v»ho died in spring, When roses were blooming around, While the morning lark its carol would sing As it flew o'er the burial ground ! How it parted aside, with its iron blade, The grass which so lately grew ; And a grave for the young was carefully made, 'Neath the shade of the broad-spreading yew. It could tell of those in the bloom of youth, Whose steps were so light and free — Whose thoughts were pure, and whose hearts were truth, But who now sleep silently ! How their graves were made in the sum- mer-time. When the flowers around were bright, And wreaths were made of the eglantine, And placed o'er their brows so white. It could tell us of manhood's slow decay ; And how, in the hour of pride, The spii'it hath left its house of clay, And all that was mortal died ; How the autumn leaves that strewed tlie ground Were quietly brushed away, While sorrowing friends were gathered ai'ound. When the clay returned unto clay ! It could tell us of Aveak and hoaiy age. With its feeble step and slow. Who gladly seized upon the gage — The gauntlet Death did throw ; How graves were made when old winter's breath Had blown on the flowers so fair : ( 508 )
