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Thomas Hood

The Bridge of Sighs

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 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!
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 flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
    Swift to be hurl'd—
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;
Fashion'd 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,
Spurr'd 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!

 
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About the poet
Thomas Hood
 
By the same poet
The Deathbed
Autumn
Silence
Death
Fair Ines
Time of Roses
Ruth
 
Related books
Thomas Hood at amazon.com


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