The formal evensong

Had passed over his head.

He sucked his thumb and squinted And dreamed, instead.

Now while the organ boomed

To the few who still were there,

At the Litany Desk

The idiot made his prayer:

"Gawd bless Mother,

'N' make Rufie a good lad; Take Rufie to Heaven

'N' forgive him when 'e's bad.

"'N' early mornin's in Heaven
'E'll make mother's tea,
'N' a cup for the Lord Jesus
'N' a cup for Thee."

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

BY THOMAS HOOD

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;
Fashion'd 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 dishonour,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's familyWipe 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.

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 hurl'd-
Anywhere, anywhere
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;
Fashion'd 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

Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd 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 behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

From TOWN PICTURES 1

BY ERNEST CROSBY

It is an August evening in a free roof-garden built for the people on a pier over the river.

I am in a bad humour to-night, and I come here to cure myself.

Crowds are sitting in rows on benches on each side of the stand where the brass band is playing, and

1 From Broad-Cast by Ernest Crosby. Published by Funk and Wagnalls Company, New York and London.