MARIE ANTOINETTE. I'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss, Nor round my neck how fast you clung! Nor how that suit my foes forbade ; Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away— Thy rosy lips, how sweet they smiled! Thy mild blue eyes, how bright they shone! And art thou now forever gone? I am not mad! I am not mad! O, hark! what mean those yells and cries? Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes! Yes, soon; for, lo! now, while I speak, Your task is done-I'm mad! I'm mad! 71 IT MARIE ANTOINETTE.-EDMUND Burke. T is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more 72 SONG OF THE SHIRT. delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,— glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. O! what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her, in a Nation of gallant men, in a Nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom! The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness. SONG OF THE SHIRT.-THOMAS HOOD. ITH fingers weary and worn, WITH With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 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! SONG OF THE SHIRT. And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, "Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! "Oh! men, with sisters dear! Oh! men, with mothers and wives! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of death, Oh God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work- work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof-and this naked floor- 73 4 74 SONG OF THE SHIRT. And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work--work—work! As prisoners work for crime! Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, "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 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-- And the grass beneath my feet; For only one sweet hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, "Oh! but for one short hour! A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A POET'S MISERIES. A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch- She sung this " Song of the Shirt.” A POET'S MISERIES.-ANON. "AH, here it is! I'm famous now; An author and a poet: It really is in print.-Ye gods! Will animate her breast, To read these ardent lines, and know To whom they are addressed. "Why, bless my soul! here's something wrong; What can the paper mean, By talking of the graceful brooks,' That 'gander o'er the green?' And here's a t instead of r, Which makes it 'tippling rill ;' We'll seek the shad,' instead of 'shade,' And hell' instead of hill.' ' "Thy look so what?—I recollect; "Twas sweet,' and then 'twas kind;' And now, to think!-the stupid fool For 'bland' has printed 'blind.' Was ever such provoking work? ('Tis curious, by the by, That anything is rendered blind By giving it an i.) "Thou hast no tears,' the t's left out, 'Thou hast no ears,' instead; 75 |