Poor Mrs. C---- (why should I not Declare her name!--her name was Cross) Was one of those the “common lot” Had left to weep “no common loss;”-- For she had lately buried then A man, the “very best of men,” A lingering truth, discover’d first Whenever men “are at the worst.” To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deep-- I mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did _not_ weep: In fact, what human life appears, It was a perfect “veil of tears.” Though ever since she lost “her prop And stay,”--alas! he wouldn’t stay-- She never had a tear to mop, Except one little angry drop, From Passion’s eye, as Moore would say; Because, when Mister Cross took flight, It looked so very like a spite-- He died upon a washing-day! Still Widow Cross went twice a week, As if “to wet a widow’s cheek,” And soothe his grave with sorrow’s gravy,-- ’Twas nothing but a make-believe, She might as well have hoped to grieve Enough of brine to float a navy; And yet she often seem’d to raise A cambric kerchief to her eye-- A _duster_ ought to be the phrase, Its work was all so very dry. The springs were lock’d that ought to flow-- In England or in widow-woman-- As those that watch the weather know, Such “backward Springs” are not uncommon. But why did Widow Cross take pains, To call upon the “dear remains,”-- Remains that could not tell a jot, Whether she ever wept or not, Or how his relict took her losses? Oh! my black ink turns red for shame-- But still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in “Anna’s Urn,” At the next grave to Mr. Cross’s! For there an angel’s virtues slept, “Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!” But still her painted face he kept, “Encompass’d in an angel’s frame.” He look’d quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band; He look’d so lone, and so _un_wived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even _that_ band; And all at once the brackish juices Came gushing out thro’ sorrow’s sluices-- Tear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho’ sopp’d, and sopp’d, and sopp’d again-- No leak in sorrow’s private pipe, But like a bursting on the main! Whoe’er has watch’d the window-pane-- I mean to say in showery weather-- Has seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain, At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together: So far’d it with that couple’s weeping! The principle was quite as active-- Tear unto tear, Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive. To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting tête à tête-- Two cups,--hot muffins on a plate,-- With “Anna’s Urn” to hold hot water!