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Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver ;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river :
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd-
Anywhere, anywhere
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 !

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,
Smooth, and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly !

Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd 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 behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour !

T. Hood



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On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread ;
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb’d the dead !

Away! we know that tears are vain,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain ?
Or make one mourner weep the less ?
And thou, who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

Lord Byron




HEN maidens such as Hester die
place ye may

not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try

With vain endeavour.
A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think


And her together.

wormy bed

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate

That flush'd her spirit :
I know not by what name beside
I shall it call : if ’t was not pride,
It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.

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