W. R. MOSS.

Pity the sorrows of a wife forlorn,

Whose weary feet have borne her to your door,
Whose days are doomed to lament and mourn;
Oh, give relief, and God will bless your store.

Those tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These weaken'd limbs proclaim my cares and fears,
And many a furrow in my griefworn cheek
Has been a channel to a flood of tears.

Should I reveal the sources of my grief,

If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be repress'd.

A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then, like the lark, I sprigthly hailed the morn;
But, ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My faithful husband, kind soother of my care
Struck with sad anguish at the hard decree,

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone,

I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face, amid the shades of death!

I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,

And this lone bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,
And waking me to weep

Tears, that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears!

'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer,

'These may she never share!'

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold.

Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate

His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And ah! pray, too, for me!