POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2517, 3 May 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

IN MBMORIAM. 3 asked Xhee, Father, for my darling’s breath, And loved him as a precious gift from Thee, Yet love could not avert the hand of Death ; All early has Thou taken him from me. Four nights ago in happy tranquil sleep My breast pillowed his head, my precious one ; Alas ! to-night, bereft of him, I weep As o’er his grave the ruthless storm winds moan. When friends come telling me ’tis for the best, Their voices fail to lift grief's darksome gloom, Hope cannot banish sorrow and unrest, I cannot look beyond my baby’s tomb. Then comes the thought, “ Oh! why am I bereft, Why should my guiltless babe suffer and die, When many who Thy fair earth curse are left To shadow guileless lives with misery ?” jay. heart is crushed in bitter agony : My sunbeam changed into a distant star; that he is safe with Thee ; 1 ° '*•» of pain Heaven seems -out from my paBO far. , ■ / And ever does my saddened spirit pine When memory gives back a shadow face Once more to see his bright eyes raised to mine. Once more to clasp him in one fond embrace. In Tain, Yet dark seems life without bio smile, „ Vainly I strive to say, “Thy will bo done, O Crucified One, I am weak and vile, Yet from the sinless ones around Thy throne Through grief and sorrow, let my darling guide The faltering footsteps of my soul to Thee. That, when Life 1 # cares, nor Dsath’s dark vale divide, I may at last my loved and lost one see.

A LITTLE ELBOW BOOM. Good friend, don’t crowd so very tight, There’s room enough for two ; Keep in your mind that I’ve a right To live aa well as you. You’re rich and strong, I poor and weak But think yon I presume, When only this poor boon I ask— A little elbow room ? ’Tia snob sa you, the rich and Strong, If you had but the wiik Oonld give the weak a lift along, And help him up the hill. . But no—you jostle, crowd and drive, You storm, you fret and fume ; Are you the only man alive In want of elbow room? But thus it is on life's rough path, Self seems the god of all; The strong will crush the weak to death ; The big devour the small. Ear better to be a rich man’s hound— A valet, serf, or groom, Than struggle with the mass around When we’ve no elbow room. Up heart 1 my boy, don’t mind the shocks ; Up heart, and pass along 1 Your skin will soon grow tough with knocks, Your limbs with labor strong. And there’s a hand unseen to aid, A star to light the gloom— Up heart, my boy 1 nor be afraid, Strike out for elbow room. And when you see amid the throng A fellow-toiler slip, Just give him, as you pass along, A brave and kindly grip. Let noble deeds, though poor you bo, Your path in life illume, And, with true Christian charity, Give others elbow room.