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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 ap 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!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Feelings had changed :
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence:
Even God's providence
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 flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurled -
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,
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, il 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!
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed on futurity.
Spurred by contumely,
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!
WOLSEY'S SOLILOQUY AFTER HIS DOWNFALL.
From “ Henry Eighth."
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening, – nips his root,
And then he falls as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye;
I feel my heart new open'd: 0, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favors !
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to –
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.-
WOLSEY'S ADDRESS TO CROMWELL.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me
Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, — say I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall’st, a blessed martyr. Serve the king;
And, — Pr’ythee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's; my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE MONOTONE.
INVOCATION TO LIGHT. Opening of the Third Book of “ Paradise Lost." Hail, holy Light! offspring of heaven first-born, Or of the Eternal co-eternal beam, May I express thee unblamed ? since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or hear'st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell ? Before the sun, Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Escaped the Stygian pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn; while in my flight, Through utter and through middle darkness borne, With other notes than to the Orphean lyre, I sung of Chaos and eternal Night; Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reäscend, Though hard and rare; thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou Revisit’st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, Or dim diffusion veil'd. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget Those other two equall’d with me in fate, So were I.equall’d with them in renown, Blind Thamyris, and blind Mæonides, And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old : Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move