"He's helpless and homeless, But stainless as snow; O, take him and keep him-- My poor little Joe."

That's all there is of it, If false or if true; Yet long enough seems it, And sad enough, too.

No love-welcomed greeted The sweet baby face, In the life that gave his life There was not a place.

No place for the baby, There's none for him here, No heart that may give him A smile or a tear.

Off to the refuge, For such, he must go, He's only a foundling-- Poor little Joe.

Deserted, forsaken, Thrust out in the strife, Adrift on the pitiless Ocean of life.

What will become of him, Who may decide If good or if evil His life shall betide.

No tender caresses Ever to know, Nor guidance, nor blessing-- Poor little Joe.

FATE.

Ruth was a laughing-eyed prattler, Thoughtless, and happy, and free; She planted a seed in the garden, And said: "It will grow to a tree-- A beautiful blossoming tree."

The birds and the squirrels played round it, As careless and merry was she, But not tree ever grew from her planting-- No beautiful blossoming tree.

Ruth was a winsome-faced maiden, Happy, and hopeful, and free; She planted a seed in the garden, And smilingly waited to see-- A beautiful blossoming tree.

She covered the ground up with flowers, The b.u.t.terfly came, and the bee, But no tree ever grew from her planting-- No beautiful blossoming tree.

Ruth was a pale saddened woman, Thoughtful, with tremblings and fears, She planted a seed in the garden, And watered the place with her tears-- And watched it with tremblings and fears.

The winds and the rains beat upon it, The lightnings flashed o'er it in glee; But she sleeps 'neath the tree of her planting-- A beautiful blossoming tree.

THE GHOSTS IN THE HEART.

They came in the hush of the midnight, In the glare of the noonday start Out from the graves we made them-- The graves we made in the heart.

There is love with its fickle fancies; Its grave was so wide and deep, And we heaped the mound with oblivion, But the soul of love could not sleep.

And hate! ah, we buried it deeper Than all the rest of the train; But one word through memory flashing, And its ghost comes back again.

There are phantoms of sunshiny hours That fled when the summer time fled, And specters that mock while they haunt us, Long buried, but never dead.

And ever and ever an hour Will come that the heart-wraiths control, Till down from Eternity's tower A banshee shall ring for the soul.

ONLY A TRAMP.

Only a tramp by the roadside dead, Only a tramp--who cares?

His feet are bare, his dull eyes stare, And the wind plays freaks with his unkempt hair.

The sun rose up and the sun went down, But n.o.body missed him from the town Where he begged for bread 'till the day he was dead.

He's only a tramp--who cares?

Only a tramp, a nuisance gone.

One more tramp less--who cares?

Ghastly and gray, in the lane all day, A soiled, dead heap of human clay.

Would the wasted crumbs in the rich man's hall, Where the gas-lights gleam and the curtains fall, Have given him a longer lease of breath-- Have saved the wretch from starving to death?

He's only a tramp--who cares?

Only a tramp! was he ever more Than a beggar tramp? Who cares?

Was the hard-lined face ever dimpled and sweet?

Has a mother kissed those rough brown feet, And thought their tramping a sweeter strain Than ever will waken his ear again?

Does somebody kneel 'way over the sea, Praying "Father, bring back my boy to me?"

Does somebody watch and weep and pray For the tramp who lies dead in the lane to-day?

He's only a tramp--who cares?

PUT FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE.

When dead, no imposing funeral rite, Nor line of praise I crave; But drop your tears upon my face-- Put flowers on my grave.

Close not in narrow wall the place In which my heart finds rest, Nor mark with tow'ring monument The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab A burning thought or deed, Or word of love, or praise, or blame, For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts, A tender mem'ry save; Upon my dead face drop your tears-- Put flowers on my grave.

OLD AUNT LUCY.

Why into that darkened chamber Walk you with such noiseless tread?

No slumbering one will awaken-- The sheeted form is dead.

Why gaze on the rigid features, So white in death's embrace, With such look of awe and pity?

'Tis only the same old face.

Why touch you now so tender The hands that silent lay?

They're only the sunburned fingers That toiled for you night and day.

Why now, with your tear-dimmed vision, So softly do you press Upon the wrinkled forehead Your lips in sad caress?

How much of care had lighted That lingering, loving kiss, Had you in life but gave it-- You never thought of this.