THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 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 O, it was pitiful! 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 BRIDGE OF SIGIIS. The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river; In she plunged boldly, Over the brink 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, Decently, kindly, Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, THE HOLLY TREE. Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, Perishing gloomily, Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour! THOMAS HOOD. THE HOLLY TREE. O READER! hast thou ever stood to see The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. THE HOLLY TREE. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, But as they grow where nothing is to fear, I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the holly tree Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear To those who on my leisure would intrude, Gentle at home, amid my friends, I'd be, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I, day by day, Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as, when all the summer trees are seen MY CHILD. The holly leaves their fadeless hues display But when the bare and wintry woods we see, So, serious should my youth appear among So would I seem, amid the young and gay, That in my age as cheerful I might be ROBERT SOUTHEY. MY CHILD. I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes-he is not there! I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that he is not there! |