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 P
Who was her father P
Who was her mother P
Had she a sister 9
Had she a brother p
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other P
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,
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—
Any where, any where
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,
T)issolute 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
T}readfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
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 !
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
$he 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 ;
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 P 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,
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