The Sun.
London, England, 1862-07-30 00:00:00

KITTY PALMER.

We extract the following quaint but pleasing
poem from the new volume of lioutledge's series of
the Poets, which contains the collected poems of
Mr. W. C. Bennett :

"KITTY PALMER."
[The sole inscription on an old headstone in Dulwich
Churchyard.]
But " Kitty Palmer"— not a word
Beyond—the mossy head. stone's showing;
Not even a date; it seems absurd
To care for ono one can't be knowing,
Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh
The quiet road 1 travel often.
And ale eye, when 1 vise her by,
Towards Kitty there, coy heart will soften.

There's nothing there her age to say;
Young? old ?—all's hid by time's thick curtain;
Was she a babe, scarce born a day ?
A girl ? a woman ?—all's uncertain ;
Was she maid, wife, or widow?—well,
That knowledge—we must do without it;
We know there's nothing here to tell,
And that's all we can know about it.

What conquests were her's ?—did she reign,
A child, but in her home's affections,
Or, older grown, seek, not in vein,
Heart Humphs, for sty et recollections ?
Was she vain ? humble ? foolish ? wise ?
Rich P poor? coy ? hold I) quite dull or witty ?
Oh, were you wicked with your eyes,
A plague to men—l hope not, Kitty I
Did children make her smile or sigh,
A blessed or afflicted mother?
Did sheet weddings laugh ? or try
By death-beds, sobs in ‘ain to smother?
At her grandchildren's christenings, eyes,
Half tears--half laughter, aid she show now?
Or weep their flight to Paradise
From cradles here ? —ah, wno can know now I
Yet still my fancy will go on
About this long-gone Kitty dreaming.
She, freed from all we think upon
Of worldly toils and cares and scheming.
Whatever she was, here her rest—
How pleasantly these green elms shade it,
How calm and throblues is her breast,
However wild, or sad, life made it I
As here I see her lie, forgot
By all who used to hate or love her,
By all but oho who makes thin spot
So sweet with thymy turf above her.
I cannot come to picture her
But as a sweet one life could render
With smiles to heaven—one fit to stir
In me but thoughts serene and tender.

So 1 think of her—think her fair,
And on the painttd sunshine g ,zing
See laughing eyes and golden bait;
All beauty that one sh, uld be praising;
A happy girliab wife before
My sight she lives, to fancy giving
Content more cairn—more sweet, since more
Undimmed by fears, than do the living.
For we are things that know n„ peace--
Poor slaves of care and toil and pleasure
Of wants and hopes that never cease
For calm content we have no leisure;
But her's no more are sin and death,
All we must fear, with which we've striven;
Earth's must be still unquiet breath;
She breahes but heaven's,
we trust, forgiven.
All they who knew her, too have
passed
Fr ,m time; all broken heart-lies mended,
They have rejoined her where at last
All tears are dried—all sorrows ended :
What matters then that here her name
Alone is written! She is faring
As well as most who cased for fame,
For whom now not a soli is caring,

Ah, you who here are writing this,
And dream perhaps
in fitture I.tory:
Your name may live—who, catch or miss,
Snatch at a little gleam of glory,
Is it 0 much that men should know
y ur words years hence;—nay, I,an, breathe calmer!
Will you not sleep as weal below
Ihe grass, forgot like Kitty Palmer!
Blackheath.
...—...... 1..............
W. C. BENNETT.

To TEA TRADE, July 28.—The deliveries in
London estimated for the week were 983,2841 b., Which ie
an increase of 6,6341 b,, compared with the previous state'
meat.