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340 No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg's play. Ah, happy mother! well I know You hear like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low, In the falling summer rain.

'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless dolls, of school-books torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more. Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet; Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old; A woman in a lonely home, Hearing like a sad refrain,— 'Be worthy love, and love will come,' In the falling summer rain.

My 'Beth!' the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came. Death canonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine. The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door;