Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully; Make no deep scrutiny 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 THOMAS HOOD. Under the sun! O, it was pitiful! Sisterly, brotherly, Even God's providence Where the lamps quiver From window and casement, From garret to basement, The bleak wind of March But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Swift to be hurled - In she plunged boldly, Lave in it, drink of it, Take her up tenderly, Ere her limbs frigidly 6155 Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, "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 "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, 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, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seemed to speak, As we had lent her half our powers |