Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if “to wet a widows’ 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 seemed 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 locked 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,
“Encompassed in an angel’s frame.”

He looked quite sad and quite deprived,
His head was nothing but a hat-band;
He looked so lone, and so unwived,
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’ sopped, and sopped, and sopped again—­
No leak in sorrow’s private pipe,
But like a bursting on the main! 
Whoe’er has watched 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 fared 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 tete-a-tete—­
Two cups—­hot muffins on a plate—­
With “Anna’s Urn” to hold hot water! 
The brazen vessel for awhile
Had lectured in an easy song,
Like Abernethy,—­on the bile—­
The scalded herb was getting strong;
All seemed as smooth as smooth could be,
To have a cosy cup of tea. 
Alas! how often human sippers
With unexpected bitters meet,
And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,
Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told,
Had seen three husbands to the mould: 
She never sought an Indian pyre,
Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves;
But, with a proper sense of fire,
Put up, instead, with “three removes.” 
Thus, when with any tender words
Or tears she spoke about her loss,
The dear departed Mr. Cross
Came in for nothing but his thirds;
For, as all widows love too well,
She liked upon the list to dwell,
And oft ripped up the old disasters. 
She might, indeed, have been supposed
A great ship owner; for she prosed
Eternally of her Three Masters!