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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 !
() ! 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-
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 ;
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 !

T. Hood

CCXXXII

ELEGY O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread ; Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! Away! we know that tears are vain, That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : Will this unteach us to complain ? Or make one mourner weep the less ?

And thou, who tellst me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

Lord Byron

CCXXXIII

HESTER
When maidens such as Hester die
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try

With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed

And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate

That flush'd her spirit :
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call : if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule
Which doth the human feeling cool;
But she was train’d in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour! gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore

Some summer morning-
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning ?

C. Lamb

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lle is gone on the mountain

He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.
The fount reappearing

From the raindrops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow !

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain

Like the foam on the river
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever !

Sir W. Scott

ccxxxv THE DEATH BED We watch'd her breathing thro’ the night,

Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

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