Chapter 10

My daughter,--once the comfort of my age! Lured by a villain from her native home, Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife,--sweet soother of my care!-- Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell,--lingering fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

THOMAS MOSS.

A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.

THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.

The merry brown hares came leaping Over, the crest of the hill, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping, Under the moonlight still. Leaping late and early, Till under their bite and their tread, The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead.

A poacher's widow sat sighing On the side of the white chalk bank, Where, under the gloom of fire-woods, One spot in the lea throve rank.

She watched a long tuft of clover, Where rabbit or hare never ran, For its black sour haulm covered over The blood of a murdered man.

She thought of the dark plantation, And the hares, and her husband's blood, And the voice of her indignation Rose up to the throne of God:

"I am long past wailing and whining, I have wept too much in my life: I've had twenty years of pining As an English laborer's wife.

"A laborer in Christian England, Where they cant of a Saviour's name, And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's For a few more brace of game.

"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, There's blood on your pointer's feet; There's blood on the game you sell, squire, And there's blood on the game you eat.

"You have sold the laboring man, squire, Both body and soul to shame, To pay for your seat in the House, squire, And to pay for the feed of your game.

"You made him a poacher yourself, squire, When you'd give neither work nor meat, And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden At our starving children's feet;

"When, packed in one reeking chamber, Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed, And the walls let in the day;

"When we lay in the burning fever, On the mud of the cold clay floor, Till you parted us all for three months, squire, At the cursèd workhouse door.

"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders? What self-respect could we keep, Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?

"Our daughters, with base-born babies, Have wandered away in their shame; If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, Your misses might do the same.

"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, With handfuls of coals and rice, Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting A little below cost price?

"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, And take to allotments and schools, But you 've run up a debt that will never Be repaid us by penny-club rules.

"In the season of shame and sadness, In the dark and dreary day. When scrofula, gout, and madness Are eating your race away;

"When to kennels and liveried varlets You have cast your daughters' bread, And, worn out with liquor and harlots, Your heir at your feet lies dead;

"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector, Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, You will find in your God the protector Of the freeman you fancied your slave."

She looked at the tuft of clover, And wept till her heart grew light; And at last, when her passion was over, Went wandering into the night.

But the merry brown hares came leaping Over the uplands still, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping On the side of the white chalk hill.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME."

The farmer's wife sat at the door, A pleasant sight to see; And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns That played around her knee.

When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, A poor fish-wife came by, And, turning from the toilsome road, Unto the door drew nigh.

She laid her burden on the green, And spread its scaly store; With trembling hands and pleading words, She told them o'er and o'er.

But lightly laughed the young guidwife, "We're no sae scarce o' cheer; Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,-- I'll buy nae fish sae dear."

Bending beneath her load again, A weary sight to see; Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife, "They are dear fish to me!

"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night, And when the storm blew o'er, My husband, and my three brave sons, Lay corpses on the shore.

"I've been a wife for thirty years, A childless widow three; I maun buy them now to sell again,-- They are dear fish to me!"

The farmer's wife turned to the door,-- What was't upon her cheek? What was there rising in her breast, That then she scarce could speak?

She thought upon her ain guidman, Her lightsome laddies three; The woman's words had pierced her heart,-- "They are dear fish to me!"

"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, And pity's gathering tear; "Come in, come in, my poor woman, Ye 're kindly welcome here.

"I kentna o' your aching heart, Your weary lot to dree; I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words: 'They are dear fish to me!'"

Ay, let the happy-hearted learn To pause ere they deny The meed of honest toil, and think How much their gold may buy,--

How much of manhood's wasted strength, What woman's misery,-- What breaking hearts might swell the cry: "They are dear fish to me!"

ANONYMOUS.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.

THE IRISH FAMINE.

Give me three grains of corn, mother,-- Only three grains of corn; It will keep the little life I have Till the coming of the morn. I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,-- Dying of hunger and cold; And half the agony of such a death My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,-- A wolf that is fierce for blood; All the livelong day, and the night beside, Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, And the sight was heaven to see, I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother,-- How could I look to you For bread to give to your starving boy, When you were starving too? For I read the famine in your cheek, And in your eyes so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand, As you laid it on your child.

The Queen has lands and gold, mother, The Queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold,-- A babe that is dying of want, mother, As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother,-- What has poor Ireland done, That the world looks on, and sees us starve, Perishing one by one? Do the men of England care not, mother,-- The great men and the high,-- For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother, Dying of want and cold, While only across the Channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold; There are rich and proud men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view, And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night Would give life to _me_ and _you_.

Come nearer to my side, mother. Come nearer to my side, And hold me fondly, as you held My father when _he_ died; Quick, for I cannot see you, mother, My breath is almost gone; Mother! dear mother! ere I die, Give me three grains of corn.

AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,-- Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work While the cock is crowing aloof! And work--work--work Till the stars shine through the roof! It's, O, to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work--work--work Till the brain begins to swim! Work--work--work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam,-- Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"O men with sisters dear! O men with mothers and wives! It is no linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch! stitch! stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt,-- Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt!

"But why do I talk of death,-- That phantom of grisly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own,-- It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work--work--work My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags, That shattered roof--and this naked floor-- A table--a broken chair-- And a wall so blank my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work--work--work From weary chime to chime! Work--work--work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, 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, And twit me with the Spring.

"O, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,-- With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

"O but for one short hour,-- A respite, however brief! No blessèd leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,-- Stitch! stitch! stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THOMAS HOOD.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot-- To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings; _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none, He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,-- 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, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! He's taking a drive in his carriage at last! But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: _Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_

You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! And be joyful to think, when by death you 're 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!_

But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend! _Bear soft his bones over the stones! Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!_

THOMAS NOEL.

UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The shadows lay along Broadway, 'T was near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair,-- For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo,-- But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,-- A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail,-- 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!-- But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

O the snow, the beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below! Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet, Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along. Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong. Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek; Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak; Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, Pure as an angel and fickle as love!

O the snow, the beautiful snow! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! Whirling about in its maddening fun, It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around. The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. How the wild crowd go swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song! How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,-- Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye! Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go Over the crest of the beautiful snow: Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street.

Once I was pure as the snows,--but I fell: Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven--to hell: Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street: Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy, Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living and fearing the dead. Merciful God! have I fallen so low? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace,-- Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sisters all, God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; For all that is on or about me, I know There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down; To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!

JAMES W. WATSON.

LONDON CHURCHES.

I stood, one Sunday morning, Before a large church door, The congregation gathered, And carriages a score,-- From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set,-- But above the cross there glistened A golden Coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide; Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide,-- There might be good thoughts in her, For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within, On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline,-- The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded Where she could rest and pray; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array,-- "God's house holds no poor sinners," She sighed, and crept away.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON.)

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"--HAMLET.

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

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care! Fashioned 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 dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,-- One of Eve's family,-- Wipe 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 floating river; Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurled-- 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! 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.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

She stood at the bar of justice, A creature wan and wild, In form too small for a woman, In feature too old for a child. For a look so worn and pathetic Was stamped on her pale young face, It seemed long years of suffering Must have left that silent trace.

"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her With kindly look, yet keen, "Is--?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." "And your age?" "I am turned fifteen." "Well, Mary--" And then from a paper He slowly and gravely read, "You are charged here--I am sorry to say it-- With stealing three loaves of bread.

"You look not like an offender, And I hope that you can show The charge to be false. Now, tell me, Are you guilty of this, or no?" A passionate burst of weeping Was at first her sole reply; But she dried her tears in a moment, And looked in the judge's eye.

"I will tell you just how it was, sir; My father and mother are dead, And my little brothers and sisters Were hungry, and asked me for bread. At first I earned it for them By working hard all day, But somehow the times were hard, sir, And the work all fell away.

"I could get no more employment; The weather was bitter cold; The young ones cried and shivered (Little Johnnie's but four years old). So what was I to do, sir? I am guilty, but do not condemn; I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?-- The bread to give to them."

Every man in the court-room-- Graybeard and thoughtless youth-- Knew, as he looked upon her, That the prisoner spake the truth. Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, Out from their eyes sprang tears, And out from the old faded wallets Treasures hoarded for years.

The judge's face was a study, The strangest you ever saw, As he cleared his throat and murmured _Something_ about the _law_. For one so learned in such matters, So wise in dealing with men, He seemed on a simple question Sorely puzzled just then.

But no one blamed him, or wondered, When at last these words they heard, "The sentence of this young prisoner Is for the present deferred." And no one blamed him, or wondered, When he went to her and smiled, And tenderly led from the court-room, Himself, the "guilty" child.

ANONYMOUS.

THE FEMALE CONVICT.

She shrank from all, and her silent mood Made her wish only for solitude: Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook, For innermost shame, on another's to look; And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!-- She still was young, and she had been fair; But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care, That frost and fever that wear the heart, Had made the colors of youth depart From the sallow cheek, save over it came The burning flush of the spirit's shame.

They were sailing over the salt sea-foam, Far from her country, far from her home; And all she had left for her friends to keep Was a name to hide and a memory to weep! And her future held forth but the felon's lot,-- To live forsaken, to die forgot! She could not weep, and she could not pray, But she wasted and withered from day to day, Till you might have counted each sunken vein, When her wrist was prest by the iron chain; And sometimes I thought her large dark eye Had the glisten of red insanity.

She called me once to her sleeping-place, A strange, wild look was upon her face, Her eye flashed over her cheek so white, Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,-- The sound from mine ear hath never gone!-- "I had last night the loveliest dream: My own land shone in the summer beam, I saw the fields of the golden grain, I heard the reaper's harvest strain; There stood on the hills the green pine-tree, And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. A long and a weary way I had come; But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home. I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there, With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair! The Bible lay open upon his knee, But he closed the book to welcome me. He led me next where my mother lay, And together we knelt by her grave to pray, And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, For it echoed one to my young days dear. This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead! --We have not spoken, but still I have hung On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue. To me they are music, to me they recall The things long hidden by Memory's pall! Take this long curl of yellow hair, And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, My dying prayer, was for him." ...

Next day Upon the deck a coffin lay; They raised it up, and like a dirge The heavy gale swept over the surge; The corpse was cast to the wind and wave,-- The convict has found in the green sea a grave.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

HOPELESS GRIEF.