THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS ONE more Unfortunate, Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully; Now is pure womanly. Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's familyWipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity O, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Feelings had changed: Where the lamps quiver With many a light From window and casement, The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, In she plunged boldly— The rough river ran- Picture it, think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Last look of despairing, Perishing gloomily, Burning insanity, Into her rest. Cross her hands humbly Over her breast! Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! Thomas Hood (1799-1845] THE SONG OF THE SHIRT In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work-work-work While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim! Work-work-work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam,— Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "O men with sisters dear! O men with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, "But why do I talk of death,— It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread-and rags. That shattered roof-and this naked floor A table-a broken chair And a wall so blank my shadow I thank "Work-work-work From weary chime to chime! Work-work-work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band,— Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work In the dull December light! And work-work-work When the weather is warm and bright! While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, And twit me with the Spring. "Oh but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! |