POETRY.
THE MOTHER.
" Ho ! " said the child, " how fine the horses go, With nodding plumes, with measured step and slow. Who rides within this coach, is he not great ? Some King, I think, for see, he rides in state."
I turned, and saw a little coffin lie Half-hid in flowers as the slow steeds went by, So small a woman's arms might bold it presded _ As soma rare jewel-dasket to her Wait ;
Or like Pandora's box with pulsing lid, Where throbbing thoughts must lie for ever hid.
"Why this? why this ?" comes forth the panting breath, "And was I born to taste of nought save death ? "
" Ho !" said the child, " how the proud horses shake Their silver harness till they music make. Who drives abroad with all this majesty? Is it some Prince who fain his world would see " And as I looked I saw through the dim glass Of one sad coach that all so slow did pass A woman's face,—a mother's eyes ablaze Seize on the child in fierce and famished gaze.
"Death drives," I said, and drew him in alarm Within the shelter of my circling arm. So in my heart cried out a thousand fears, "A King goes past." He wondered at my tears.
DORA. SIGERSON.
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