In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake,
With a voice wildly crying, "Will he come, for my sake?"
Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone,
Poor fading light—ceases burning—and with God she's alone.
"Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,
"Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn!" in the grave all alone.
In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy's at rest,
While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o'er her breast—
While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away,
Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay.
"Hot corn!" she was crying, in the night all alone,
"Hot corn! here's your nice hot corn," in the grave all alone.
A VOICE FROM KATY'S GRAVE.
Among the many poetical effusions which have been elicited by reading the story of "Little Katy," I think the following, which appeared in the New York Tribune, will be read with pleasure. It is from the pen of Mrs. B. F. Foster, of New York:—
With dizzy whirl, on rushed the wheels
Along the City's murky street,
And music's light, inspiring peals
Rang out from folly's gay retreat;
And busy footsteps hurried past,
And human voices, harsh and wild,
Commingling, floated on the blast;
When the shrill accents of a child
Rose mid the din, in tones forlorn,
And cried, "Come, buy hot corn, hot corn!"
Like some sad spirit wafted by,
A stranger to the ways of earth,
Came up that little plaintive cry—
Sweet discord to the sounds of mirth.
Unheeded by the reckless crowd,
There stood a girl, a pale, wan thing,
And 'neath her bosom's tattered shroud
There lurk'd an age of suffering;
While e'en till night approached the morn,
In feebler voice, she cried, "Hot Corn!"
The gas lamp's glare fell on her face,
But lighted not her languid eyes;
And down her pallid cheeks, the trace
Of tears, bespoke her miseries;
With hunger gnawing at her heart,
She shivered, as the night wind blew
Her soiled and ragged clothes apart;
Till all insensible she grew,
And sinking in unblessed sleep,
Forgot to cry, "Hot Corn," and weep.
Alone, so young, how came she there?
To sell hot corn so late at night;
Had she no friends, no home, nowhere
To rest, and hide her from the sight
Of the rude world? No mother? Hush!
That holy name is not the one
For Katy's parent. Woman! blush
For thy lost sister; blush to own
That thou canst ever fall so low,
To plunge thy children into woe.
Within that mother's heart, the light
Of love was quench'd, quench'd by the flood,
The damning flood, whose waters blight
All that is left of human good:
And in her breast that demon reigned,
Who "Give, give, give!" is ever crying;
Demanding still to be maintained,
While all within, around, is dying;
Outpouring in its baneful breath,
Destruction, sorrow, sin and death.