sudden wail, not of the poor seamstress alone, but of the whole body of the under-paid and over-worked, fighting out their grim duel with Hunger. It rang through the length and breadth of the land, arousing and quickening a compassion which to this day has not wholly faded out. Such a production it is waste of time to criticise it reaches its mark so surely and swiftly that mere questions of detail and technique seem to be impertinent superfluities. But the Bridge of Sighs, which appeared a few months after in Hood's Magazine, is, in our opinion, superior as a work of art. The Lady's Dream, and the Lay of the Labourer, which belong to the same periodical, have less merit. The Haunted House, with which its pages opened in January, 1844, is a masterpiece of a different order. It is an extraordinarily minute study of disuse and decay,-of the ghostliness and horror that broods and gathers about neglect :

With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd;
The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after,
And through the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd
With naked beam and rafter.

'O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear;

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!'

The latter verse recurs throughout the poem with singular effect. The length of the piece places it beyond the limits of quotation ; but the selection given will show sufficiently how simple and sincere,-how strong in the abiding elements of song were the more serious efforts of this gentlest and most patient of poets.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

'Drown'd! drown'd!'-Hamlet.

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned 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 dishonour,

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?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed:

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 hurled-
Any where, any where
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;
Fashioned 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,

Spurred 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!

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop,-first let me kiss away that tear)—
Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite !
With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin-
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air-
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents-(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee extracting honey
From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble !—that's his precious nose !)