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The Pauper's Death-BED.
In reverent silence bow-
Is passing now.
With lowly reverence bow;
Greater than thou.
Lo! Death doth keep his state;
This palace gate.
No smiling courtiers tread;
A dying head.
An infant wail alone;
The parting groan.
Burst are the prison bars,—
Beyond the stars !
Oh! change-stupendous change!
There lies the soulless clod :
Wakes with his God.
The cottage was a thatched one,
The outside old and mean; Yet everything within that cot
Was wondrous neat and clean.
The wind was howling wild ;
T'he death-bed of her child-
His once bright eyes grown dim; It was a collier's only child,
They called him "Little Jim." And oh! to see the briny tears
Fast hurrying down her cheek,
She was afraid to speak,
Far better than her life;
Had that poor collier's wife.
Beside the sufferer's bed,
And take herself instead.
She gets her answer from the child ;
Soft fall these words from him “Mother, the angels do so smile,
And beckon Little Jim.'
“I have no pain, dear mother, now;
But oh! I am so dry !
And, mother, don't you cry!
A teacup to his lips ;
Three little tiny sips. “Tell father, when he comes from work,
I said good-night to him ;
Alas! poor little Jim !
The child she loved so dear
Might ever hope to hear.
The collier's step is heard ; The father and the mother meet,
Yet neither speak a word. He felt that all was over,
He knew his child was dead ; He took the candle in his hand,
And walked towards the bed. His quivering lip gives token
Of the grief he'd fain conceal; And see, his wife has joined him ;
The stricken couple kneel.
With hearts bowed down with sadness,
They humbly ask of Him
Their own poor “Little Jim.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill :
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. “ Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger:
“ The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger;
A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh ! “Erin ! my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ! But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me?
They died to defend me, or live to deplore !
“Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Oh my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal. “Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !
Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields—sweetest isle of the Ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mavournin! Erin go bragh.'
And thou hast walked about, (how strange a story !)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
And time had not begun to overthrow
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune; Thour't standing on thy legs above ground, Mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.