The Sabbath Bells. THE cheerful sabbath bells, wherever heard, Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired Him thus engaged, the sabbath bells salute And softens with the love of human kind. CHARLES LAMB. The Song of the Shirt! WITH fingers weary and worn, 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: Till the stars shine through the roof, 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; 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! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death? That phantom of grisly bone; Oh! God! that bread should be so dear, "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 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! 66 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, "Oh! but to breathe the breath To feel as I used to feel, And the walk that costs a meal! Oh, but for one short hour! A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny head My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread." With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, THOMAS HOOD. Lines written in a Highland Glen. To whom belongs this valley fair, Silent- as infant at the breast Save a still sound that speaks of rest, The heavens appear to love this vale; By that blue arch, this beauteous earth |