Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee,

And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here.

32. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

THOMAS HOOD.

[See p. 429.]

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 O! 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!

It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep.

Oh! 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.

66

'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 me 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!”

(By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)

33.-THE BOAT-RACE.

W. C. BENNETT.

[Mr. William Cox Bennett is the son of a watchmaker, of Greenwich, where he was born, 1820. About 1845 he began to contribute poems to the various periodicals; but it was not until the publication of his "Baby May and other Poems," and his "Worn Wedding Ring and other Poems," 1861, that he attracted the attention he deserved. Since then his fame may be said to be established, and he now occupies a prominent position among the minor poets of the day.]

THERE, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.
I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,
Or wait a twelvemonth.

Books-for ever books!
Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes!
I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
To breast the world with, and to cleave your way,
No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,

She needing yours. There-there-I love you, Ned,
Both for your own, and for your mother's sake:
So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit,

He left the subject; and across the wine,
We talked, or rather, all the talk was his,-
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known,
Both of his set, and others-Clare, the boast
Of Jesus', and young Edmonds, he who fell,
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow; and, to-day,

There was young Chester might be named with them;
Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with

66

cups

Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins;
Small chance for you, boy!" And again his laugh,
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went,
But left not. Through the garden porch I turned,
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one