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O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art Her sighs and tears, and musings

mine,

And do not take my tears amiss;
For tears must flow to wash away
A thought that shows so stern as
this.

Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
In woe to come, the present bliss,
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis.
E'en so the dark and bright will
kiss;

The sunniest things throw sternest
shade;

And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid!
Now let us with a spell invoke

The full-orbed moon to grieve our
eyes;

Not bright, not bright- - but with a
cloud

Lapped all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest.
The ghost of the late buried sun
Had crept into the skies.

The moon! she is the source
sighs,

holy!

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LOVE thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Love thy mother, little one!

Gaze upon her living eyes,
And mirror back her love for thee,
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs
To meet them when they cannot see.
Gaze upon her living eyes!

of Press her lips the while they glow

The very face to make us sad,
If but to think in other times
The same calm, quiet look she had,
As if the world held nothing base,
Or vile and mean, or fierce and

bad

The same fair light that shone in

streams,

The fairy lamp that charmed the

lad;

For so it is, with spent delights
She taunts men's brains, and makes

them mad.

With love that they have often told,
Hereafter thou mayest press in woe,
And kiss them till thine old are cold,

Press her lips the while they glow!

Oh, revere her raven hair!
Too early Death, led on by Care,
Although it be not silver-gray —
May snatch save one dear lock away.

Oh! revere her raven hair!

That Heaven may long the stroke
Pray for her at eve and morn,
defer,-

For thou may'st live the hour forlorn

All things are touched with melan- When thou wilt ask to die with her.

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Pray for her at eve and morn!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon;

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For when the morn came, dim and sad,

And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had Another morn than ours.

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 oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to

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"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 sweetWith 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 hourA respite however brief!

No blessed 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!"

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
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.

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