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But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.
WILLIAM HOWITT
* * * * *


THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair, sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight:
Where are those sleepers now?
One, midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;
He wrapped the colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one--o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers--
The last of that fair band.


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