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And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells

And two French copper coins, ranged there with

careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we die with tranced breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood,

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,

Thou'lt leave Thy wrath and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness."

COVENTRY PATMORE.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; Then, heigh-ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly!

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not.

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : Then, heigh-ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"-Hamlet.

ONE more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care,-
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family— Wipe those poor lips of hers, Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

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Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.

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'dAnywhere, 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!

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