THE LADY'S DREAM. THE lady lay in her bed, Her couch so warm and soft, But her sleep was restless and broken still; From side to side, she muttered and moan'd At last she started up, And gazed on the vacant air, With a look of awe, as if she saw Some dreadful phantom there And then in the pillow she buried her face The very curtain shook, Her terror was so extreme, And the light that fell on the broidered quilt Kept a tremulous gleam; And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried, "Oh me! that awful dream! That weary, weary walk, In the churchyard's dismal ground! And those horrible things, with shady wings, That came and flitted round, Death, death, and nothing but death, In every sight and sound! “And oh! those maidens young, Who wrought in that dreary room, With figures drooping and spectres thin, And cheeks without a bloom ; And the voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride We haste to an early tomb!' "For the pomp and pleasures of pride; And only to earn a home at last, "And still the coffins came, With their sorrowful trains and slow; Coffin after coffin still, A sad and sickening show; "Of the hearts that daily break, "For the blind and the cripple were there, The naked, alas, that I might have clad, "The sorrow I might have soothed, For many a thronging shape was there, Ay, even the poor rejected Moor, "Each pleading look, that long ago Wo, wo for me if the past should be "No need of sulphurous lake, No need of fiery coal, But only that crowd of human kind Who wanted pity and dole In everlasting retrospect― Will wring my sinful soul! Alas! I have walked through life Nay, helping to trample my fellow worm, Forgetting that even the sparrow falls "I drank the richest draughts; And ate whatever is good- But I never remembered the wretched ones "I dressed as the noble dress, In cloth of silver and gold, But I never remembered the naked limbs "The wounds I might have healed! The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart!" She clasped her fer at hands, And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame Would dream the Lady's Dream! THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, 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 oh! 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, "Oh! men with sisters dear! Oh! men with mothers and wives! |