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Allan Cunningham amongst autograph better boys bread called Charles Lamb common course dance dead deaf dear door double dream Dundee eyes face fancy favor fear fire gentleman gilded give gold Gold Sticks Golden Ass Golden Leg GOLDEN LEGEND green Gregory House hand happy hath head hear heart hint hope horse human Jean Bertaut lady Lamb light limb Lincolnshire literary London look Lord Lord Byron mind Miss Kilmansegg moral nature never night once Otto of Roses perhaps persons pigs play Poet poor Precious Leg present Pugsley Quaker remember rich seem'd seemed short Sir Jacob Sir Walter Scott sitting song sort soul sound spirit sweet There's thing Thomas Hood tree turn turn'd Twas voice walk whilst whole wretch write young yure
Page 203 - 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 ! (The vigour of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos.
Page 34 - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER" I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups— Those flowers made of light!
Page 200 - 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 dishonour Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Page 208 - With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 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 !
Page 209 - Men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch— stitch— stitch In poverty, hunger, and dirt,— Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a Shirt!
Page 27 - As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare ! " Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep ! " So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones ! Ay, though he 's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh — The world...
Page 26 - One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, Still urging me to go and see The Dead Man in his grave!
Page 202 - 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 ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair...
Page 209 - Work, work, work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, and rags ; That shattered roof, and this naked floor, A table, a broken chair, And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there.