the story of two lives.
23
Fights its hard fight for life, as stags, they say,
Wounded to death, will yet keep death at bay.
Wounded to death, will yet keep death at bay.
And thus I come once more, for air and light,
It was so piteous in that dreary night;
And then, perchance, some kindly passer-by
Will speak some word to soothe me, ere I die,
If not, in yon poor street, I think I know
A friend, to whom undoubting I could go
For help in this last hour;—a labouring man
And poor, but kind, as oft we poor ones can
Be kind to one another. Though so late,
He will be working still; they cannot wait
Who need his work—his hard, ill-omened trade,
To make the coffins of the pauper dead.
Tis here, the shutter is not closed—I see.
Let me look in. He's working. By his knee,
I see her well, in matron-beauty stands
A woman; and a baby's tiny hands
Are clasped around her neck. Could I have been
A wife and mother! Oh my God!—what sin
To murmur now!—all is, and must be, best.
And yet—and yet—a baby on my breast
It was so piteous in that dreary night;
And then, perchance, some kindly passer-by
Will speak some word to soothe me, ere I die,
If not, in yon poor street, I think I know
A friend, to whom undoubting I could go
For help in this last hour;—a labouring man
And poor, but kind, as oft we poor ones can
Be kind to one another. Though so late,
He will be working still; they cannot wait
Who need his work—his hard, ill-omened trade,
To make the coffins of the pauper dead.
Tis here, the shutter is not closed—I see.
Let me look in. He's working. By his knee,
I see her well, in matron-beauty stands
A woman; and a baby's tiny hands
Are clasped around her neck. Could I have been
A wife and mother! Oh my God!—what sin
To murmur now!—all is, and must be, best.
And yet—and yet—a baby on my breast
