Make no deep scrutiny Who was her father? And he pointed to the laden board and to the Christmas tree, Then up to the cold sky, and said, “Will Gretchen come with me?" The poor child felt her pulses fail, she felt her eyeballs swim, And a ringing sound was in her ears, like her dead mother's hymn : And she folded both her thin white hands and turned from that bright board, And from the golden gifts, and said, “With thee, with thee, O Lord !” The chilly winter morning breaks up in the dull skies On the city wrapt in vapor, on the spot where Gretchen lies. In her scant and tattered garments, with her back against the wall, She sitteth cold and rigid, she answers to no call. They have lifted her up fearfully, they shuddered as they said, “It was a bitter, bitter night! the child is frozen dead." The angels sang their greeting for one more redeemed from sin ; Men said, " It was a bitter night; would no one let her in ?" And they shivered as they spoke of her, and sighed. They could not see How much of happiness there was after that misery ANONYMOUS. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. "Drowned i drowned I" - HAMLET. ONE more unfortunate, Alas ! for the rarity 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 ! 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, Staring so blindly ! Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity. Perishing gloomily, Spurred 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 behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour ! THOMAS HOOD. BEAUTIFUL SNOW. Dancing, Skimming along. Chasing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Ringing, Dashing they go To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by ; | To betrampled and tracked by the thousands of feet Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. Once I was pure as the snow, – but I fell : Pleading, Dreading to die, Father, Sisters all, again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! Fainting, Dying alone, JAMES W. WATSON. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. In reverent silence bow,- Is passing now. | Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: Rattle his bones over the stones ! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! The whip, howitcracks! and the wheels, how they spin! Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow; Greater than thou. How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled !- Rattle his bones over the stones / Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state. This palace gate. That pavement, damp and cold, No smiling courtiers tread; A dying head. No mingling voices sound, An infant wail alone; The parting groan. Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach Rattle his bones over the stones ! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! veyed, laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones ! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns ! Bear soft his bones over the stones ! THOMAS NOEL. O change ! O wondrous change! Burst are the prison bars, – Beyond the stars. O change ! stupendous change! There lies the soulless clod ; Wakes with his God. FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. CAROLINE BOWLES. THE PAUPER’S DRIVE. THERE's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot, — Rattle his bones over the stones ! Is there for honest poverty Wha langs his head, and a' that? We dare be poor for a' that. Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The man's the gowd for a' that. Wear hoddin gray, and a' that; A man 's a man for a' that. Their tinsel show, and a' that ; Is king o' men for a' that. 0, where are the mourners ? Alas! there are none; He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone, It is a weary interlude, HENRY KING A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, WILLIAM DRUMMOND. THE END OF THE PLAY. The play is done, — the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay. THE DIRGE. What is the existence of man's life One word, ere yet the evening ends, — Let's close it with a parting rhyme ; And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts That fate erelong shall bid you play ; Good night !--- with honest, gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway! Good night !- I'd say the griefs, the joys,' Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age ; It is a storm where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood; |
