Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, (The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamp'd from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) Thou young domestic love! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball-bestride the stick, (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk. With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown.) Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the south, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove(I'll tell you what, my love, I cannot write unless he's sent above!) I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember The house where I was born The little window where the sun The roses-red and white; Those flowers made of light! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing; That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops It was a childish ignorance, To know I'm farther off from heaven THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. With fingers weary and worn, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, "Work-work-work! Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work! Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Band, and gusset, and seam, "Oh! men with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, "But why do I talk of death, That phantom of grisly bone? Because of the fast 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, A shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime; As prisoners work for crime! 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 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 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet; With the sky above my head, To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, "Oh! but for one short hour! 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- THE LADY'S DREAM. The lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; For, turning oft and oft From side to side, she muttered and moan'd, And toss'd her arms aloft. At last she started up, And gazed on the vacant air With a look of awe, as if she saw Some dreadful phantom there And then in the pillow she buried her face From visions ill to bear. The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme, And the light that fell on the broidered quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried, "Oh me! that awful dream! "That weary, weary walk, In the churchyard's dismal ground! And those horrible things, with shady wings, That came and flitted round- Death, death, and nothing but death, "And oh! those maidens young, Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin, And cheeks without a bloom ;— And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride "For the pomp and pleasures of pride, "And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; From grief exempt, I never had dreamt "Of the hearts that daily break, Of the tears that hourly fall, Of the many, many troubles of life, "For the blind and the cripple were there, And the houseless man, and the widow poor The naked, alas, that I might have clad, "The sorrow I might have soothed, And the unregarded tears! For many a thronging shape was there, "Each pleading look, that, long ago, Woe, woe for me if the past should be "No need of sulphurous lake, No need of fiery coal, But only that crowd of humankind Who wanted pity and dole |