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النشر الإلكتروني

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 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

THOMAS HOOD.

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,
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 -
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,
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,

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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? 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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And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich! She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THE DEATH-BED.

WE watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak,
So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.

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