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From Taits Magazine.
THE POOR MAN TO HIS DEAD CHILD.
Yes. lie thou there, my little one,
The dea,h-dsw's on thy brow,
Thy eyes arc closed to aowcr and sun.
Thy pulse n quiet now.
No more thou'lt ask, my famishd boy
For bread with wailing cry,
when I'd have given my fiesh with JOY
thread could not buy.
Poor child thy sharp, cold fsatutes speak
Ofpain, and want, and caro-;
on did the tear drops on thy check
Freeze in the biting air.
Bu. colder than the ksenest wind,
Were human hearts to thee,
Because, thous claiming human kind.
Thy lot was poverty.
rhs proud ones say 'tis heavens award:
They but kind heaven obey.
To keep the gifts Of nature bard
From those who cannot pay.
M child, III sadly sveet to shink
-Ear.sN hever hunger md
Mar gaze with ~is,ful eye, yet shrink
From breads inyi,;ns store
But. oh ny :aded flower. for this.


Was thy young being given,
To meet with nousht but wrctchedness,
And Eowns from earth and heaven7
Was this the pledge o: cradled smile
That spoke tho happy dream,
And gave me, worn with pain and toll.
Ofpassins bliss CLEAN?
And yet, u,ayhap, thy fate is bless'd.
And should rather joy q.
That thy young heart the woes have niss'd IS
That wait the poor mans boy
The cold repulse, the CALLING sneeE


That drives to theft and shame;
The madc'nins thoughts, the soul that scar,
The scorn'd and b!ishted name.
O, yes; or haply worse than all.


Thou misht'st have lived to be
A servile, crouohins, Aatterins thrail


At some wealth-dagon's knae.
Than this, thy eyes I'd rather close


On all thou mi sht'st have seen,
All stricken through ith many woes


As thy young heart hath been.