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?

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun! 
O, 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 floating river;
Mad from life’s history,
Glad to death’s mystery,
Swift to be hurled—­
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! 
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
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fixed 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 behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!

THOMAS HOOD.

GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?

She stood at the bar of justice,
  A creature wan and wild,
In form too small for a woman,
  In feature too old for a child. 
For a look so worn and pathetic
  Was stamped on her pale young face,
It seemed long years of suffering
  Must have left that silent trace.