He grieves with smothered sighs
Till his wearying spirit dies;
And so I yearn to thee,
Thou river of the free,
My own, my native Thames!
NE 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.
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!
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!
Thames! thy merry waters run
Gloomily now, without star or sun!
The wind blows o'er thee, wild and loud,
And heaven is in its death-black shroud;
And the rain comes down with all its might,
Darkening the face of the sullen Night.
Midnight dies! There booms a sound,
From all the church-towers thundering round;
Their echoes into each other run,
And sing out the grand night's awful "One!"
Saint Bride, Saint Sepulchre, great Saint Paul,
Unto each other, in chorus, call!
Who speaks? "Twas nothing: the patrol grim
Moves stealthily o'er the pavement dim;
The debtor dreams of the gripe of law;
The harlot goes staggering to her straw;
And the drunken robber, and beggar bold
Laugh loud, as they limp by the Bailey Old.
Hark,—I hear the blood in a felon's heart!
I see him shiver and heave and start
(Does he cry?) from his last short bitter slumber,
To find that his days have reached their number, -
To feel that there comes, with the morning text,
Blind death, and the scaffold, and then-what next?
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