That the Shadow which follow'd was double!
Or when she closed her chamber door,
It was shutting out, and for evermore,
The world-and its worldly trouble.
Little she dreamt, as she laid aside
Her jewels after one glance of pride-
They were solemn bequests to Vanity-
Or when her robes she began to doff,
That she stood so near to the putting off
Of the flesh that clothes humanity,
And when she quench'd the taper's light,
How little she thought as the smoke took flight,
That her day was done-and merged in a night
Of dreams and duration uncertain-
Or along with her own,
That a Hand of Bone
Was closing mortality's curtain!
But life is sweet, and mortality blind,
And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind
In concealing the day of sorrow;
And enough is the present tense of toil-
For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil-
And the mind flies back with a glad recoil
From the debts not due till to-morrow.
Wherefore else does the Spirit fly
And bid its daily cares good-bye,
Along with its daily clothing?
Just as the felon condemn'd to die-
With a very natural loathing—
Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes,
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes
To a caper on sunny gleams and slopes,
Instead of the dance upon nothing.
Thus, even thus, the Countess slept,
While Death still nearer and nearer crept,
Like the Thane who smote the sleeping-
But her mind was busy with early joys,
Her golden treasures and golden toys ⚫
That flash'd a bright
And golden light
Under lids still red with weeping.
The golden doll that she used to hug!
Her coral of gold, and the golden mug!
Her godfather's golden presents!
The golden service she had at her meals,
The golden watch, and chain, and seals,
Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,
And her golden fishes and pheasants!
The golden guineas in silken purse—
And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurse
Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage—
And London streets that were paved with gold-
And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old-
With each golden thing
To the golden ring
At her own auriferous Marriage?
And still the golden light of the sun
Through her golden dream appear'd to run,
Though the night, that roared without, was one
To terrify seamen or gipsies-
While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,
Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,
As though she enjoy'd the tempest's birth,
In revenge of her old eclipses.
But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,
For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell
That time had lately embitter'd-
The Count, as once at her foot he knelt--
That foot, which now he wanted to melt !
But-hush!-'twas a stir at her pillow she felt-
And some object before her glitter'd.
'Twas the Golden Leg!-she knew its gleam! And up she started and tried to scream, —
But ev'n in the moment she started-
Down came the limb with a frightful smash,
And, lost in the universal flash
That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,
The Spark, call'd Vital, departed:
Gold, still gold! hard, hard yellow, and cold,
For gold she had lived, and she died for gold-
By a golden weapon-not oaken;
In the morning they found her all alone-
Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone-
But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone,
And the "Golden Bowl was broken!"
Gold-still gold! it haunted her yet-
At the Golden Lion the Inquest met-
Its foreman, a carver and gilder-
And the Jury debated from twelve till three
What the Verdict ought to be,
And they brought it in as Felo de Se,
"Because her own Leg had kill'd her!"
GOLD! Gold ! Gold! Gold !
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammer'd and roll'd;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, barter'd, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrow'd, squander'd, doled:
Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! Gold ! Gold ! Gold !
Good or bad a thousand-fold!
How widely its agencies vary-
To save-to ruin-to curse-to bless-
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch stitch! stitch!
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!
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