Original Poetry.

Evening Star, Issue 4203, 16 August 1876, Page 4

Original Poetry.

A SUICIDE; OR, OKLY A STRANGER BOY.

Say, why does that crowd of loungers gaze With a frightened look and idle stare ? With terrer pictured in every face, That fear or grief has implanted there ? Feel if hip heart beats—raise his head— On my ear these mournful counsels fall; ’Tis only a stranger boy that’s dead ! Shot dead - a stranger bpy—that’s all!

Yes—let me look at him lying there, Though that look is fraught with au inward pain, To know that that form, so young and fair, Will never awaken to life again. Tenderly raise him, and gently dry The tear that fell ere his life had fled ; Pass on with the crowd, and heave no sigh—’Tis only a stranger boy that’s dead ! Heedlessly laid in the dust and clay. Hands clasped and stained with the crimson gore— Clasped on the weapon that stole a way The life whose hopes and dreams are o’er; Softly the brown curls touch thy brow, O’er its childish beauty some stray links fall, Tangled and wet with the sweat now, Only a stranger boy’s—that’s all j Despite the smile that thy features wore. Pale, pale and sad, with a look of pain, Yet an inward sweetness in death they bore That can never pass from thy face again. Carelessly go on your busy way ; Wipe not a tear for the soul that’s fled. The dust is stretched on its mother clay—’Tis only a stranger boy that’s dead !

No home to claim thee, no friend to save, No peace for the pilgrim form at rest; Weeping you sunk to an early grave By the hand that’s clasped on your stony breast. Some blotted lines, ere thy life was gone, Is all that is left us here, they say, To tell us what madness goaded thee on To wreck the hfe that was thine to-day. ’Tis over now ! in the churchyard rest No pain will throb in thy young heart more; The green grass will wave on thy peaceful breast, And thy struggle yyifh life and its care is o’er. So short! so sad ! the tears still stray From my weeping eyes o’er thy lowly bed; Ah ! why do I weep o’er the lifeless clay ? ’Tis only a stinger boy that’s dead J Kitty,

A correspondent forwards us the following, which was picked up in a Dunedin streef a day or two ago : TO A FRIEND. 0, fxiend, I would my love had power To make thy life-long pathway pleasant; To watch o’er thee I fain would bo A silent fairy, ever present. To give thee all thy heart’s desire, To help thee when the road is dreary ; To pour the balm of pefect calm When cares press hard and thou art weary. No fond, self-seeking love is mine, No rain desire or passion tameless j To comfort thee fain would I be Unknown, unseen, unloved, and nameless. F. C. S.