That mystic Tree which breathed to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground; Within that shady Avenue Where lofty Elms abound.

LEAR.

A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind-- For pity, my own tears have made me blind That I might never see my children's frown; And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown A folded fillet over my dark mind, So that unkindly speech may sound for kind-- Albeit I know not.--I am childish grown-- And have not gold to purchase wit withal-- I that have once maintain'd most royal state-- A very bankrupt now that may not call My child, my child--all beggar'd save in tears, Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate, Foolish--and blind--and overcome with years!

SONNET.

My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace, As if he slept--forgetting his old speed: For, as in sunshine only we can read The march of minutes on the dial's face, So in the shadows of this lonely place There is no love, and Time is dead indeed.

But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart, Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies, It seems we only meet to tear apart, With aching hands and lingering of eyes.

Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight By the same light of love that makes them bright!

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

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!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, 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; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!"

"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!

"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 benumb'd, 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 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!"

THE PAUPER'S CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Full of drink and full of meat, On our SAVIOUR'S natal day, CHARITY'S perennial treat; Thus I heard a Pauper say:-- "Ought not I to dance and sing Thus supplied with famous cheer?

Heigho!

I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"After labor's long turmoil, Sorry fare and frequent fast, Two-and-fifty weeks of toil, Pudding-time is come at last!

But are raisins high or low, Flour and suet cheap or dear?

Heigho!

I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Fed upon the coarsest fare Three hundred days and sixty-four, But for _one_ on viands rare, Just as if I wasn't poor!

Ought not I to bless my stars, Warden, clerk, and overseer?

Heigho!

I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Treated like a welcome guest, One of Nature's social chain, Seated, tended on, and press'd-- But when shall I be press'd again, Twice to pudding, thrice to beef, A dozen times to ale and beer?

Heigho!

I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Come to-morrow how it will; Diet scant and usage rough, Hunger once has had its fill, Thirst for once has had enough, But shall I ever dine again?

Or see another feast appear?

Heigho!

I only know-- Christmas comes but once a year!

"Frozen cares begin to melt, Hopes revive and spirits flow-- Feeling as I have not felt Since a dozen months ago-- Glad enough to sing a song-- To-morrow shall I volunteer?

Heigho!

I hardly know-- Christmas comes but once a year.

"Bright and blessed is the time, Sorrows end and joys begin, While the bells with merry chime Ring the Day of Plenty in!