 | A little book of tribune verse |  |
25
THE FOUNDLING.
A little child upon the ground,
Chilled by the storm and crying sore,
With humble raiment covered o'er,
One blustering winter's morn was found.
None knew from whence or how he came,
That little stranger all forlorn,
Deserted on that cruel morn,
None knew the little foundling's name.
Chilled by the storm and crying sore,
With humble raiment covered o'er,
One blustering winter's morn was found.
None knew from whence or how he came,
That little stranger all forlorn,
Deserted on that cruel morn,
None knew the little foundling's name.
Kind people heard the piteous cry,
Perhaps 'twas God that ope'd their ears,
They dried the little suff'rers tears,
And wrapped his limbs in garments dry.
Withal he dies, and now forgot,
He sleeps within the churchyard green,
No name, no sign has e'er been seen
Upon the stone that marks the spot.
Perhaps 'twas God that ope'd their ears,
They dried the little suff'rers tears,
And wrapped his limbs in garments dry.
Withal he dies, and now forgot,
He sleeps within the churchyard green,
No name, no sign has e'er been seen
Upon the stone that marks the spot.
But wild flowers nestled all around,
The birds sing sweetly overhead,
The little children love to spread
Their tributes o'er the tiny mound.
If there be aught of heavenly love,
O what a mockery is fame,
A little soul without a name
May find a biding place above.
The birds sing sweetly overhead,
The little children love to spread
Their tributes o'er the tiny mound.
If there be aught of heavenly love,
O what a mockery is fame,
A little soul without a name
May find a biding place above.
February 20th, 1882.
| A little book of tribune verse | |