The Pauper's Grave.


Lo! a grassy mound, where lowers
Branching wide a sombre yew,
Rises as to catch the showers,
Jewelled showers, of heaven-sent dew.
Many a one with foot unheeding,
Tramples down its verdure brave,
Hurrying onward, careless treading,--
It is but a pauper's grave.

Workhouse hirelings from the Union
Bore him to his last, lone bed,
"Dust to dust," that sad communion
Woke no grief, no tear was shed.
Worn by woes and life's denials,
Only rest he now would crave:
Quiet haven from all trials
To the pauper is his grave.

E'en the rough-hewn stone is broken,
Where some rude, untutored hand
Carved two letters, as a token
Of their boyhood's scattered band,
And when bright Palm Sunday neareth,
When the dead remembrance crave,
Friend nor brother garland beareth
For the pauper's squalid grave.