Then looked upon the Slaver's gold,
And then upon the maid.

His heart within him was at strife
With such accursed gains;

For he knew whose passions gave her life,
Whose blood ran in her veins.

But the voice of nature was too weak-
He took the glittering gold!

Then pale as death grew the maiden's
cheek,

Her hands as icy cold.

The Slaver led her from the door,

He led her by the hand,

To be his slave and paramour
In a strange and distant land!

LONGFELLOW.

CLXXVI.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

Into a ward of the white-washed halls,

Where the dead and the dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day—
Somebody's darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face,
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould-
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow,
Brush all the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his hands on his bosom now-
Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from the cluster take-
They were somebody's pride we know:
Somebody's hand has rested there:

Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair

Been baptised in those waves of light?

God knows best; he was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
There he lies with his blue eyes dim,
And smiling, childlike lips apart.

L

Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head,
Somebody's Darling slumbers here.”

66

LACOSTE.

CLXXVII.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn,
With eye-lids 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 O! 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,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death

That phantom of grisly bone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep:
Alas! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags:

And what are its wages? A bed of strawA 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
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work,

As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seamSeam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work,

66

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.

"O! 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!

"O, but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time tor Grief!