Chapter III: Adversity

MAN.

In his own image the Creator made,
His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man!
Thou breathing dial! since the day began
The present hour was ever marked with shade!

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

THE WORLD.

The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man Less than a span: In his conception wretched, from the womb, So to the tomb; Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years With cares and fears. Who then to frail mortality shall trust, But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, What life is best? Courts are but only superficial schools To dandle fools: The rural parts are turned into a den Of savage men: And where's a city from foul vice so free, But may be termed the worst of all the three?

Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, Or pains his head: Those that live single, take it for a curse, Or do things worse: Some would have children: those that have them, moan Or wish them gone: What is it, then, to have or have no wife, But single thraldom, or a double strife?

Our own affection still at home to please Is a disease: To cross the seas to any foreign soil, Peril and toil: Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, We are worse in peace;-- What then remains, but that we still should cry For being born, or, being born, to die?

FRANCIS, LORD BACON.

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

Moan, moan, ye dying gales! The saddest of your tales Is not so sad as life; Nor have you e'er began A theme so wild as man, Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf! Autumn sears not like grief, Nor kills such lovely flowers; More terrible the storm, More mournful the deform, When dark misfortune lowers.

Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre, Silence, ye vocal choir, And thou, mellifluous lute, For man soon breathes his last, And all his hope is past, And all his music mute.

Then, when the gale is sighing, And when the leaves are dying, And when the song is o'er, O, let us think of those Whose lives are lost in woes, Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELE.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.

False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favors cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her; There's none can want where thou supply'st; There's none can give where thou deny'st. Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

What well-advisèd ear regards What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy regards Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in 't, Nor wealth, nor pleasure: Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st With man; vain man! that thou rely'st On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure, To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Is dross and trash? The height of whose enchanting pleasure Is but a flash? Are these the goods that thou supply'st Us mortals with? Are these the high'st? Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly!

SHAKESPEARE.

THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND.

FROM "PROMETHEUS."

O holy Æther, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,--
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me
A limit to these sorrows?
And yet what word do I say? I have fore-known
Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe
With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse
Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
In silence or in speech. Because I gave
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
To this compelling fate. Because I stole
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,
That sin I expiate in this agony,
Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.
Ah, ah me! what a sound,
What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen
Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between,
Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,
To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain--
Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!
The god Zeus hateth sore,
And his gods hate again,
As many as tread on his glorified floor,
Because I loved mortals too much evermore.
Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,
As of birds flying near!
And the air undersings
The light stroke of their wings--
And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.

From the Greek of ÆSCHYLUS. Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SAMSON ON HIS BLINDNESS.

FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES."

O loss of sight, of thee I must complain! Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains, Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age! Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased. Inferior to the vilest now become Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me: They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, Within doors or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of moon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, Without all hope of day!

MILTON.

LINES.

[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason.]

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green, My youth is past, and yet I am but young, I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought for death and found it in the wombe, I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe, And now I die, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;

And now I live, and now my life is done!

CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3.

Hence, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't
But only melancholy,
O, sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fastened to the ground, A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

JOHN FLETCHER.

THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And--when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of--say, I taught thee, Say, Wolsey--that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor-- Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee: Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; and--pr'ythee, lead me in: There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies!

* * * * *

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening--nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.

SHAKESPEARE.

THE APPROACH OF AGE.

FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."

Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks: The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before, But now the bounding spirit was no more; A moderate pace would now my body heat, A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed; At home I felt a more decided taste, And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,-- My dinner more; I learned to play at chess. I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose; Told the same story oft,--in short, began to prose.

GEORGE CRABBE.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:
The breath of the moist air is light
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,--
The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',--
The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone;
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,--
How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion!

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that Content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned,--
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround;
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament,--for I am one
Whom men love not,--and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.

[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.]

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,--
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth,--
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death.
Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight, with no pain.
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,
In such an ecstasy!--
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?

JOHN KEATS.

PERISHED.

CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.

Wave after wave of greenness rolling down From mountain top to base, a whispering sea Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze Murmurs mysteriously.

And towering up amid the lesser throng, A giant oak, so desolately grand, Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven In agonized demand.

Smitten by lightning from a summer sky, Or bearing in its heart a slow decay, What matter, since inexorable fate Is pitiless to slay.

Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about, Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head, And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,-- "Look on me, I am dead!"

MARY LOUISE RITTER.

BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.

"_On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year._"
--MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf,
The flowers and fruits of love are gone:
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
Is like to some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze,--
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not _thus_,--and 'tis not _here_,
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor _now_,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece about us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.

Awake!--not Greece,--she is awake!
Awake my spirit! think through whom
Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth,--why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here:--up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out--less often sought than found--
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest!

LORD BYRON.

A DOUBTING HEART.

Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart!
Far over purple seas
They wait, in sunny ease,
The balmy southern breeze
To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
O doubting heart!
They only sleep below
The soft white ermine snow
While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays
These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart!
The stormy clouds on high
Veil the same sunny sky
That soon, for spring is nigh,
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair?
O doubting heart!
The sky is overcast,
Yet stars shall rise at last,
Brighter for darkness past;
And angels' silver voices stir the air.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

THE VOICELESS.

We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them:
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!

Nay grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,--
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,--
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

A LAMENT.

O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more,--O nevermore!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more,--O nevermore!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"

Spring it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?

Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him,
Maud and Marian pass him by;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey,--
What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly,
O for its folly!
A dancing leg and a laughing eye!
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly,--
What can an old man do but die?

Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;
Gold's in his clutches
(Buying him crutches!)--
What can an old man do but die?

THOMAS HOOD.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul-- Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, But many a house an' home was open then to me; Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men, And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-- I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage one family will do, But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best; And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good by! Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

WILL CARLETON.

OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone.
All the landscape, like a page perusing;
Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;
Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;
There he sat!
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care:
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads and little maidens;
Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"--
Its grave import still my fancy ladens,--
"Here's a fool!"
It was summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
I remember well, too well, that day!
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,
Would not stay
When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,
O, to me her name was always Heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
Isabel!
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told."
Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled!
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.

"I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted
To the core:
I have tottered here to look once more.

"All the picture now to me how dear!
E'en this old gray rock where I am seated,
Is a jewel worth my journey here;
Ah that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!
All the picture now to me how dear!

"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game.
Old stone school-house, it is still the same.

"In the cottage yonder I was born;
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;
There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;
Ah, forlorn!
In the cottage yonder I was born.

"Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!
Those two gateway sycamores you see.

"There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
Past its prime!
There's the orchard where we used to climb.

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,
Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;
Traps and trails!
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails.

"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;
Pond and river still serenely flowing;
Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,--
Mary Jane!
There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

"There's the gate on which I used to swing,
Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas! no more the morn shall bring
That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!
There's the gate on which I used to swing.

"I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled.
Yon green meadow was our place for playing
That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and I were straying;
She is dead!
I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled.

"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
So familiar to my dim eye,
Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided hither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother,
Gone to God!
Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson!--but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever!
Peaceful days!
There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

"There my Mary blessed me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings,
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!
There my Mary blessed me with her hand.

"I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the care!
I have come to see that grave once more.

"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
In his eye another pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled!
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old."

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing;
Poor, unknown!
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

RALPH HOYT.

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door; And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he had pressed In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady! she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff; And a crook is in his back, And the melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here, But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches,--and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE LAST LEAF.

YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.

I've overlived aspirings,
My fancies I disdain;
The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.

'Neath cruel storms of Fate
With my crown of bay,
A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.

Thus, struck by latter cold
While howls the wintry wind,
Trembles upon the naked bough
The last leaf left behind.

From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN. Translation of JOHN POLLEN.

THE OLD VAGABOND.

Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay;
Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave.
"He's drunk," the passing crowd will say
'T is well, for none will need to grieve.
Some turn their scornful heads away,
Some fling an alms in hurrying by;--
Haste,--'t is the village holyday!
The aged beggar needs no help to die.

Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age
I die; for hunger slays not all.
I hoped my misery's closing page
To fold within some hospital;
But crowded thick is each retreat,
Such numbers now in misery lie.
Alas! my cradle was the street!
As he was born the aged wretch must die.

In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,
I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade."
"Begone!--our business is not more
Than keeps ourselves,--go, beg!" they said.
Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,
Of bones your tables gave me store,
Your straw has often made my bed;--
In death I lay no curses at your door.

Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;--
No!--better still for alms to pray!
At most, I've plucked some apple, left
To ripen near the public way,
Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid
In the king's name, they let me pine;
They stole the only wealth I had,--
Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.

What country has the poor to claim?
What boots to me your corn and wine,
Your busy toil, your vaunted fame,
The senate where your speakers shine?
Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept,
Saw strangers battening on your land,
Like any puling fool, I wept!
The aged wretch was nourished by their hand.

Mankind! why trod you not the worm,
The noxious thing, beneath your heel?
Ah! had you taught me to perform
Due labor for the common weal!
Then, sheltered from the adverse wind,
The worm and ant had learned to grow;
Ay,--then I might have loved my kind;--
The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!

From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

THE BEGGAR.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in the humble shed.

O, take me to your hospitable dome,
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,
If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes,--why should we repine?
'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter,--once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife,--sweet soother of my care!--
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell,--lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

THOMAS MOSS.

A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.

THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.

The merry brown hares came leaping
Over, the crest of the hill,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping,
Under the moonlight still.
Leaping late and early,
Till under their bite and their tread,
The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley
Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead.

A poacher's widow sat sighing
On the side of the white chalk bank,
Where, under the gloom of fire-woods,
One spot in the lea throve rank.

She watched a long tuft of clover,
Where rabbit or hare never ran,
For its black sour haulm covered over
The blood of a murdered man.

She thought of the dark plantation,
And the hares, and her husband's blood,
And the voice of her indignation
Rose up to the throne of God:

"I am long past wailing and whining,
I have wept too much in my life:
I've had twenty years of pining
As an English laborer's wife.

"A laborer in Christian England,
Where they cant of a Saviour's name,
And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's
For a few more brace of game.

"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,
There's blood on your pointer's feet;
There's blood on the game you sell, squire,
And there's blood on the game you eat.

"You have sold the laboring man, squire,
Both body and soul to shame,
To pay for your seat in the House, squire,
And to pay for the feed of your game.

"You made him a poacher yourself, squire,
When you'd give neither work nor meat,
And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden
At our starving children's feet;

"When, packed in one reeking chamber,
Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;
While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed,
And the walls let in the day;

"When we lay in the burning fever,
On the mud of the cold clay floor,
Till you parted us all for three months, squire,
At the cursèd workhouse door.

"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?
What self-respect could we keep,
Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,
Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?

"Our daughters, with base-born babies,
Have wandered away in their shame;
If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,
Your misses might do the same.

"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking,
With handfuls of coals and rice,
Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting
A little below cost price?

"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,
And take to allotments and schools,
But you 've run up a debt that will never
Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

"In the season of shame and sadness,
In the dark and dreary day.
When scrofula, gout, and madness
Are eating your race away;

"When to kennels and liveried varlets
You have cast your daughters' bread,
And, worn out with liquor and harlots,
Your heir at your feet lies dead;

"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,
Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,
You will find in your God the protector
Of the freeman you fancied your slave."

She looked at the tuft of clover,
And wept till her heart grew light;
And at last, when her passion was over,
Went wandering into the night.

But the merry brown hares came leaping
Over the uplands still,
Where the clover and corn lay sleeping
On the side of the white chalk hill.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME."

The farmer's wife sat at the door,
A pleasant sight to see;
And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns
That played around her knee.

When, bending 'neath her heavy creel,
A poor fish-wife came by,
And, turning from the toilsome road,
Unto the door drew nigh.

She laid her burden on the green,
And spread its scaly store;
With trembling hands and pleading words,
She told them o'er and o'er.

But lightly laughed the young guidwife,
"We're no sae scarce o' cheer;
Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,--
I'll buy nae fish sae dear."

Bending beneath her load again,
A weary sight to see;
Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife,
"They are dear fish to me!

"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,
And when the storm blew o'er,
My husband, and my three brave sons,
Lay corpses on the shore.

"I've been a wife for thirty years,
A childless widow three;
I maun buy them now to sell again,--
They are dear fish to me!"

The farmer's wife turned to the door,--
What was't upon her cheek?
What was there rising in her breast,
That then she scarce could speak?

She thought upon her ain guidman,
Her lightsome laddies three;
The woman's words had pierced her heart,--
"They are dear fish to me!"

"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice,
And pity's gathering tear;
"Come in, come in, my poor woman,
Ye 're kindly welcome here.

"I kentna o' your aching heart,
Your weary lot to dree;
I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words:
'They are dear fish to me!'"

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn
To pause ere they deny
The meed of honest toil, and think
How much their gold may buy,--

How much of manhood's wasted strength,
What woman's misery,--
What breaking hearts might swell the cry:
"They are dear fish to me!"

ANONYMOUS.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.

THE IRISH FAMINE.

Give me three grains of corn, mother,--
Only three grains of corn;
It will keep the little life I have
Till the coming of the morn.
I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,--
Dying of hunger and cold;
And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,--
A wolf that is fierce for blood;
All the livelong day, and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food.
I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,
And the sight was heaven to see,
I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother,--
How could I look to you
For bread to give to your starving boy,
When you were starving too?
For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eyes so wild,
And I felt it in your bony hand,
As you laid it on your child.

The Queen has lands and gold, mother,
The Queen has lands and gold,
While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold,--
A babe that is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now,
With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother,--
What has poor Ireland done,
That the world looks on, and sees us starve,
Perishing one by one?
Do the men of England care not, mother,--
The great men and the high,--
For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,
Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother,
Dying of want and cold,
While only across the Channel, mother,
Are many that roll in gold;
There are rich and proud men there, mother,
With wondrous wealth to view,
And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night
Would give life to _me_ and _you_.

Come nearer to my side, mother.
Come nearer to my side,
And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when _he_ died;
Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,
My breath is almost gone;
Mother! dear mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.

AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

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, 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 no 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;
O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"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
For sometimes falling there!

"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.

"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 blessèd leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

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-- Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THOMAS HOOD.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot-- To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings; _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none, He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,-- Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns_!

What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din! The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! He's taking a drive in his carriage at last! But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend! _Bear soft his bones over the stones! Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!_

THOMAS NOEL.

UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The shadows lay along Broadway,
'T was near the twilight-tide,
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,
Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And Honor charmed the air;
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good as fair,--
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo,--
But honored well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,--
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail,--
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow
For this world's peace to pray;
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way!--
But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven
By man is cursed alway!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

O the snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below! Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet, Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong. Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek; Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak; Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

O the snow, the beautiful snow! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! Whirling about in its maddening fun, It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around. The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. How the wild crowd go swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,-- Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye! Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow: Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street.

Once I was pure as the snows,--but I fell: Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven--to hell: Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street: Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful God! have I fallen so low? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace,-- Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; For all that is on or about me, I know There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down; To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!

JAMES W. WATSON.

LONDON CHURCHES.

I stood, one Sunday morning, Before a large church door, The congregation gathered, And carriages a score,-- From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set,-- But above the cross there glistened A golden Coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide; Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide,-- There might be good thoughts in her, For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within, On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline,-- The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded Where she could rest and pray; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array,-- "God's house holds no poor sinners," She sighed, and crept away.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON.)

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"--HAMLET.

One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care! Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements, Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully! Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly,-- Not of the stains of her; All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny, Rash and undutiful; Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,-- One of Eve's family,-- Wipe 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 Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! O, it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed,-- Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black floating river; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled-- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,-- No matter how coldly The rough river ran-- Over the brink of it! Picture it--think of it, Dissolute man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care! Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs, frigidly, Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly! Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest! Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

THOMAS HOOD.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

She stood at the bar of justice,
A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
In feature too old for a child.
For a look so worn and pathetic
Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her
With kindly look, yet keen,
"Is--?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."
"And your age?" "I am turned fifteen."
"Well, Mary--" And then from a paper
He slowly and gravely read,
"You are charged here--I am sorry to say it--
With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender,
And I hope that you can show
The charge to be false. Now, tell me,
Are you guilty of this, or no?"
A passionate burst of weeping
Was at first her sole reply;
But she dried her tears in a moment,
And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir;
My father and mother are dead,
And my little brothers and sisters
Were hungry, and asked me for bread.
At first I earned it for them
By working hard all day,
But somehow the times were hard, sir,
And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment;
The weather was bitter cold;
The young ones cried and shivered
(Little Johnnie's but four years old).
So what was I to do, sir?
I am guilty, but do not condemn;
I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?--
The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room--
Graybeard and thoughtless youth--
Knew, as he looked upon her,
That the prisoner spake the truth.
Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,
Out from their eyes sprang tears,
And out from the old faded wallets
Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study,
The strangest you ever saw,
As he cleared his throat and murmured
_Something_ about the _law_.
For one so learned in such matters,
So wise in dealing with men,
He seemed on a simple question
Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him, or wondered,
When at last these words they heard,
"The sentence of this young prisoner
Is for the present deferred."
And no one blamed him, or wondered,
When he went to her and smiled,
And tenderly led from the court-room,
Himself, the "guilty" child.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FEMALE CONVICT.

She shrank from all, and her silent mood Made her wish only for solitude: Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook, For innermost shame, on another's to look; And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!-- She still was young, and she had been fair; But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care, That frost and fever that wear the heart, Had made the colors of youth depart From the sallow cheek, save over it came The burning flush of the spirit's shame.

They were sailing over the salt sea-foam, Far from her country, far from her home; And all she had left for her friends to keep Was a name to hide and a memory to weep! And her future held forth but the felon's lot,-- To live forsaken, to die forgot! She could not weep, and she could not pray, But she wasted and withered from day to day, Till you might have counted each sunken vein, When her wrist was prest by the iron chain; And sometimes I thought her large dark eye Had the glisten of red insanity.

She called me once to her sleeping-place, A strange, wild look was upon her face, Her eye flashed over her cheek so white, Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,-- The sound from mine ear hath never gone!-- "I had last night the loveliest dream: My own land shone in the summer beam, I saw the fields of the golden grain, I heard the reaper's harvest strain; There stood on the hills the green pine-tree, And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. A long and a weary way I had come; But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home. I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there, With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair! The Bible lay open upon his knee, But he closed the book to welcome me. He led me next where my mother lay, And together we knelt by her grave to pray, And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, For it echoed one to my young days dear. This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead! --We have not spoken, but still I have hung On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue. To me they are music, to me they recall The things long hidden by Memory's pall! Take this long curl of yellow hair, And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, My dying prayer, was for him." ...

Next day Upon the deck a coffin lay; They raised it up, and like a dirge The heavy gale swept over the surge; The corpse was cast to the wind and wave,-- The convict has found in the green sea a grave.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

HOPELESS GRIEF.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,-- That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upwards to God's throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, In souls as countries lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death; Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet-- If it could weep, it could arise and go.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

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