THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

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 BRIDGE OF SIGIIS.

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,
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!

THE HOLLY TREE.

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.

THE HOLLY TREE.

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves

Ordered by an intelligence so wise

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

THE HOLLY TREE.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home, amid my friends, I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I, day by day,

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

MY CHILD.

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree?

So, serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

MY CHILD.

I CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head

Is ever bounding round my study chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim
With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes-he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And, through the open door,
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

And then bethink me that he is not there!