WILLY'S GRAVE. BY EDWIN WAUGH. THE frosty wind was wailing wild across the wintry wold; The cloudless vault of Heaven was bright with studs of gleaming gold; The weary cotter's heavy lids had closed with closing day, And on his silent hearth a tinge of dying fire-light lay. The ancient hamlet seemed asleep beneath the starry sky; A little river, sheathed in ice, came gliding gently by; The grey church, in the graveyard, where the "rude forefathers lay," Stood, like a mother, waiting till her children came from play. No footstep trod the tiny town; the drowsy street was still, Save where the wandering night-wind sang its requiem wild and shrill. The stainless snow lay thick upon those quaint old cottage eaves, And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung where grew last summer's leaves. Each village home was dark and still, and closed was every door; For gentle sleep had twined her arms around both rich and poor,— Save in one little cot, where, by a candle's flickering ray, A childless mother sighing sat, and combed her locks of grey. Her husband and her children all were in the last cold bed, Where, one by one, she'd laid them down, and left them with the dead; Then, toiling on towards her rest—a lonely pilgrim, she For God and poverty were now her only company. Upon the shady window-sill a well-worn Bible lay; Against the wall a coat had hung for many a weary day: And, on the scanty table-top, with crumbs of supper strewn, There stood, beside a porringer, two little empty shoon. The fire was waning in the grate; the spinning-wheel at rest; The cricket's song rang loudly in that lonely woman's nest, As, with her napkin thin and worn, and wet with many a tear, She wiped the little pair of shoon her darling used to wear. Her widowed heart had often leaped to hear his prattle small; He was the last that she had left-the dearest of them all; And as she rocked her to and fro, while tears came drooping down, She sighed and cried, "Oh, Willy, love! these little empty shoon!" With gentle hand she laid them by, she laid them by with care, For Willy he was in his grave, and all her thoughts were there; She paused before she dropped the sneck that closed her lambless fold, It grieved her heart to bar the door and leave him in the cold. A threadbare cloak she wrapped around her limbs so thin and chill, She left her lonely cot behind whilst all the world was still; And through the solitary night she took her silent way, With weeping eyes, towards the spot where little Willy lay. The pale, cold moon had climbed aloft into the welkin blue, A snow-clad tree across the grave its leafless shadow threw ; And, as that mournful mother sat, upon a mound there by, The bitter wind of winter sighed to hear her wailing cry! "My little Willy's cowd an' still! He's not a cheep for me; Th' last leaf has dropt, th' last tiny leaf, that cheered this withered tree. Oh, my poor heart! my comfort's gone; aw'm lonely under th' sky! He'll never clip my neck again, an' tell me not to cry! "Nipt,-nipt i'th' bud, an' laid i'th' dust, my little Willy's dead, And o' that made me cling to life lies in his frosty bed. He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare neest! What's o' this world to me? My darlin' lad! aw'm lonely neaw! when mun aw come to thee? "He's crept into his last dark nook, an' left me pinin' here; An' never moor his two blue e'en for me mun twinkle clear. He'll never lisp his prayers again at his poor mammy's knee; Oh, Willy! oh, aw'n lonely neaw, when mun aw come to thee?" The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain, to hear that plaintive cry; The old church listened, and the spire kept pointing to the sky; With kindlier touch the bitter wind play'd in her locks of grey, And the queenly moon upon her head shone with a softened ray. She rose to leave that lonely bed-her heart was grieving sore, One step she took, and then her tears fell faster than before; She turned and gave another look,-one lingering look she gave,— Then, sighing, left him lying in his little wintry grave. (By permission of the Author.) COME WHOAM TO THY CHILDER AN' ME. BY EDWIN WAUGH. Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob; Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon; |
