Selected Poetry.

Cromwell Argus, Volume I, Issue 4, 1 December 1869, Page 1 (Supplement)

Selected Poetry.

THE LIT.I'LK SIIOH. *•£ FOUND it hore —a worn-out shun, All mildewed with time and wet with dew. 'Tia a .little thing : ye would pass it by, With never a, thought, or word, or sigh ; Yet it stirs in my spirit a hidden well, Aud iu eloquent tones of the past doth tell. It tolls of a little fairy chill, That bound my hoart with a maqie wild ; Of bright blue eyes aud golden hair, That evor she 1 joy and sunlight there ; Of a prattling voice, so aweet and clear, And the tiny feet that were ever near. It tells of hope that with her had birth, Deep buried now in the silent earth ; Of a heart that had met an answering tone, That again is left alone—alone ! Of clays of watching and anxious prayer : Of a night of sorrow and dark despair. It tells of a form that is cold and still— Of a little mound upon yonder hill, . That is dearer fur to a mother's heart Than the classic "statue 3 of Grecian art." All 3 strangers may pass with a careless air, dream of the hopes that are buried there. Oh, ye who have never o'er loved ones wept, brightest hopes have never been swept ~ Like the pure white cloud from t.hesummersky, ,' Tike the wreath of mist from the mountain high, Like the rainbow., beaming a moment here, 6 Thca melting; away to its native sphere, • Like rose-leaves loosed .by the zeplyr'3 sigh, Like that zephvr wafting its perfume by, Like the wave that kisses some graceful spot, Then passes away, yet is ne'er forgot; If like these your life-hopes have never fled, Ye cannot know of the tears I shed. Ye cannot know what a little thins* From Memory's silent fount can bring The voice and form that were once so dear. Yet there are hearts, were they only here, That could feel with me, when, all wet with X found it this morning, this little shoe. [dew<