Then looked upon the Slaver's gold, His heart within him was at strife For he knew whose passions gave her life, But the voice of nature was too weak- Then pale as death grew the maiden's Her hands as icy cold. The Slaver led her from the door, He led her by the hand, To be his slave and paramour LONGFELLOW. CLXXVI. SOMEBODY'S DARLING. Into a ward of the white-washed halls, Where the dead and the dying lay, Matted and damp are the curls of gold, Kiss him once for somebody's sake, Was it a mother's, soft and white? Been baptised in those waves of light? God knows best; he was somebody's love; Somebody's heart enshrined him there; Somebody wafted his name above Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's watching and waiting for him, L Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 66 LACOSTE. CLXXVII. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, "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- "O! Men, with Sisters dear !— O! Men, with Mothers and Wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death That phantom of grisly bone? Because of the fasts I keep: "Work-work-work! My labour never flags: And what are its wages? A bed of strawA crust of bread-and rags; That shattered roof—and this naked floor— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work, As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seamSeam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work, 66 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 blessed leisure for Love or Hope, |