I approached the enclosure, as the gardener had directed me. There were five graves. _In which_ slept the poetess? for there was _not even a headstone_! The flush of indignant feeling mounted to my temples; the warm tears started from my eyes. _She was forgotten!_ Sweet, gifted Fanny! _in her own family burial place she was forgotten!_ The stranger from a distance, who had worshiped her genius, might in vain make a pilgrimage to do her honor. I, who had personally known and loved her, had not even the poor consolation of decking the bosom of her grave with the flowers I had gathered; I could not kiss the turf beneath which she is reposing; I could not drop a tear on the sod, ’neath which her remains are mouldering back to their native dust. I could not tell, (though I so longed to know,) in which of the little graves--for there were several--slept her “dear May,” her “pure Ellen;” the little, timid, household doves, who folded their weary wings when the parent bird was stricken down, by the aim of the unerring Archer. Though allied by no tie of blood to the gifted creature, who, _somewhere_, lay sleeping there, I felt the flush of shame mount to my temples, to turn away and leave her dust so unhonored. Oh, God! to be so soon forgotten by all the world!--How can even _earth_ look so glad, when such a warm, passionate heart lies cold and pulseless? Poor, gifted, forgotten Fanny! She “still lives” in _my_ heart; and, Reader, glance your eye over these touching lines, “written during her last illness,” and tell me, Shall she not also live in thine? * * * * * A MOTHER’S PRAYER IN ILLNESS. BY MRS. OSGOOD. Yes! take them first, my Father! Let my doves Fold their white wings in Heaven safe on thy breast, Ere I am called away! I dare not leave Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts! Ah! how the shadowy train of future ills Comes sweeping down life’s vista, as I gaze? My May! my careless, ardent-tempered May; My frank and frolic child! in whose blue eyes Wild joy and passionate woe alternate rise; Whose cheek, the morning in her soul illumes; Whose little, loving heart, a word, a glance, Can sway to grief or glee; who leaves her play, And puts up her sweet mouth and dimpled arms Each moment, for a kiss, and softly asks, With her clear, flute-like voice, “Do you love me?” Ah! _let_ me stay! ah! let me still be by, To answer her, and meet her warm caress! For, I away, how oft, in this rough world, That earnest question will be asked in vain! How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart Will shrink abashed and chilled, to learn, at length, The hateful, withering lesson of distrust! Ah! let her nestle still upon this breast, In which each shade that dims her darling face Is felt and answered, as the lake reflects The clouds that cross yon smiling Heaven.