Sewing at once, with a double thread, "But why do I talk of Death? That phantom of grisly bone, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shatter'd roof- and this naked floor. A table a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank From weary chime to chime, As prisoners work for crime ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. 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 "Oh! but to breathe the breath And the grass beneath my feet, 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, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, 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!" DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Alexander Pope. Vital spark of heavenly flame, Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. Hark! they whisper; angels say, Sister spirit, come away! What is this absorbs me quite ? EXTRACT FROM "A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS." Mrs. Browning. Help me, God — help me, man! I am low, I am weak — - Death loosens my sinews and creeps in my veins ; My body is cleft by these wedges of pains, And I feel the externe and insensate creep in On my organized clay. I sob not, nor shriek, Yet I faint fast away! I am strong in the spirit, — deep-thoughted, clear-eyed,— I could walk, step for step, with an angel beside, On the Heaven-heights of Truth!— Oh! the soul keeps its youth But the body faints sore, it is tired in the race, The rein drops from its hold It sinks back with the death in its face! On, chariot, on, soul, — Ye are all the more fleet Be alone at the goal Of the strange and the sweet! Love us, God!-love us, man! We believe, we achievo— Let us love, let us live, For the acts correspond We are glorious-and DIE! And again on the knee of a mild Mystery Here we lie! O DEATH, O BEYOND, Thou art sweet, thou art strange! COWPER'S GRAVE. "I will invite thee, from thy envious herse To rise, and 'bout the world thy beams to spread, Ibid. That we may see there's brightness in the dead.”—Hab ngton. It is a place where poets crowned It is a place where happy saints Yet let the grief and humbleness, O poets! from a maniac's tongue Groaned inly while he taught you peace, And now, what time ye all may read And darkness on the glory And how, when one by one, sweet sounds And wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face, Because so broken-hearted— He shall be strong to sanctify And bow the meekest Christian down In meeker adoration: Nor ever shall he be in praise, With sadness that is calm, not gloom, With meekness that is gratefulness, On God whose Heaven hath won him Who suffered once the madness-cloud, Toward His love to blind him; But gently led the blind along Where breath and bird could find him; And wrought within his shattered brain, As hills have language for, and stars, And timid hares were drawn from woods To share his home-caresses, But while, in blindness he remained And things provided came without Nor man, nor nature satisfy, Like a sick child that knoweth not That turns his fevered eyes around — The fever gone, with leaps of heart Which closed in death, to save him. Thus! oh, not thus! no type of earth Wherein he scarcely heard the chant Of seraphs, round him breaking — |