By shouting coolies swayed, ist the din And traffic of the street, a skef rude, Atop, worn shoes and coat, Within, The lifeless form is borne to solitude.
No paper pageantry, nor boast of fame, No gong: no pipes, his sorry passing mark, No fa wunting, ikon banner to proclaim. His humble virtues.
Perth, into the. dark; is spi wanders.
Here, behold but twain To, mourn him, "One, a puny, frightened child, Sends forth her note of Inmentation wild.
'o his mother's hand as' she, in vai tortured fect, her gaunt atnev'd frame she drags, find il essays the bearers' pace to meet The careless wind mak sport of her poor rags And dust, blown swirling from the unkempt street, Contaminates, hal, the scanty dole Of rice that shall sustain him in his quest. The ray'nous child, hi faze upon the bowl, Bethinks him of the night that, minus rest, Shall torture him, afresh, in hunger's grasp. Yet, sentient of terror of the dead, Restrains the will to snatch. Renews his clasp Tpon her hand and stumbles on, ahead.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.