His hand still strained the broken brand; When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Redeem my pennon,-charge again; Cry 'Marmion to the rescue!' -Vain! That shout shall ne'er be heard again !— Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,— Must I bid twice?—hence, varlets! fly! Clare drew her from the sight away, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring O woman! in our hours of ease, By the light quivering aspen made; Scarce were the piteous accents said, Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; She stooped her by the runnel's side. A Monk supporting Marmion's head; To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, And as she stooped his brow to lave"Is it the hand of Clare," he said, "Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose,— "Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words are mine to spare; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!" "Alas!" she said, "the while,— O think of your immortal weal! I would the Fiend, to whom belongs It may not be !—this dizzy trance- With fruitless labour, Clara bound And that the priest he could not hear, "In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!" So the notes rung; "Avoid thee, Fiend!—with cruel hand, O think on faith and bliss!- A light on Marmion's visage spread, With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on !” THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. (THOMAS HOOD.) 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 she sang the "Song of the Shirt!” "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, and sew them on in a dream. O men, with sisters dear! O 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. "But why do I talk of Death? that phantom of grisly bone; I hardly fear his terrible shape, it seems so like my own. It seems so like my own, because of the fasts I keep; O God, that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap! "Work! work! work! My labour 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. "Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime; work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime. Band, and gusset, and seam; seam, and gusset, and band; till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, as well as the weary hand. "Work! work! work! 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 their sunny backs, and twit me with the spring. "Oh, 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! Oh, but for one short hour! a respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; but in their briny bed my tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread." 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!" MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. (HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.) I looked far back into other years, and lo! in bright array I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away. |