O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art Her sighs and tears, and musings mine, And do not take my tears amiss; Forgive, if somewhile I forget, The sunniest things throw sternest And there is even a happiness The full-orbed moon to grieve our Not bright, not bright- - but with a Lapped all about her, let her rise The moon! she is the source holy! LOVE thy mother, little one! Gaze upon her living eyes, of Press her lips the while they glow The very face to make us sad, bad The same fair light that shone in streams, The fairy lamp that charmed the lad; For so it is, with spent delights them mad. With love that they have often told, Press her lips the while they glow! Oh, revere her raven hair! Oh! revere her raven hair! That Heaven may long the stroke For thou may'st live the hour forlorn All things are touched with melan- When thou wilt ask to die with her. Pray for her at eve and morn! I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember He never came a wink too soon; For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had Another morn than ours. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 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 oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to "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 sweetWith the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! To feel as I used to feel, "O! but for one short hourA respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! 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 Would that its tone could reach the rich! She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. Take her up tenderly, Look at her garments Touch her not scornfully! Make no deep scrutiny |