It would have been a beauteous dream,

If it had been no more!

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.

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!"

VII.-9

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!

Because of the fasts I keep;

O, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread and rags.

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