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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!

"Oh! but for one short hour-
A 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!this "Song of the Shirt!"

She sang

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"-HAMLET.

NE more unfortunate,

ONE

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 dishonour,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

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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!

Oh, 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 flowing 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,

431

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 behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

Mrs. Caroline Norton.

TWILIGHT.

IT is the twilight hour,

The daylight toil is done,

And the last rays are departing
Of the cold and wintry sun.

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