The Sun.
London, England, 1862-07-29 00:00:00

KITTY PALMER.

We extract the following quaint but pleasing
poem from the new volume of Routledge'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 one one san't be knowing,
Yet I can't help it; she lies nigh
The quiet road I travel often.
And always, when I pass her by,
Towards Kitty there, my 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 P—all's uncertain ;
Was she maid, wife, or widow P—well,
That knowledge—we mulct 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 P—did she reign,
A child, but in her home's affections,
Or, older grown, seek, not in vain,
Heart triumphs, for sw et recollections P
Was she vain P humble P foolish P wise ?
Rich P poor ? coy ? bold P quite dull or witty
Oh, were you wicked with your eyes,
A plague to men-1 hope not, Kitty I
Did children make her smile or sigh,
A blessed or afflicted mother ?
Did she at weddings laugh ? or try
By death-beds, sobs in vain to smother?
At her grandchildren's christenings, eyes,
Half tears—half laughter, did she show now P
Or weep their flight to Paradise
From cradles here P —ah, who can know nowt
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, hero her rest—
How pleasantly these green elms shade it,
How calm and throbless is her breast,
However wild, or sad, life made it!
As here I see her lie, forgot
By all who used to hate or love her,
By all but she who makes this 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 I think of her—think her fair,
And on the painted sunshine gazing
See laughing eyes and golden hair,
All beauty that one should be praising;
A happy girlisb wife before
My sight she lives, to fancy giving
Content more calm—more sweet, since more
Undimmed by fears, than do the living,
For we are things that know no 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 breathes but heaven's, we trust, forgiven.
All they who knew her, too have passed
Fr ,m time ; all broken heart-ties 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 cared for fame,
For whom now not a soul is caring.
Ah, you who here are w
And dream perhaps infuture
Your name may ,hrioling this,
,catch or miss,
live-41story
Snatch at a little gleam of glory,
Is it so much that men should know
Your words years hence I—nay, man, breathe calmer I
Will you not sleep as well below
The grasB,
forgot like Kitty Palmer
Blackheath.

W. C. BENNETT.

I DIE TEA TRADE, July 28,—The deliveries in
1
London estimated for the week were 983,2841 b., which is
an increase of 6,5341 b., compared with the previous state-
moat.