. The poetical works of Thomas Hood. With a memoir of the author ... p dreaming of Swing,—In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing ;tor besides all the troubles Ive mentioned before, as endured for ruralitys sake,—Ive been stung by the bees, and Fve sat among ants, and once—ugh ! I trod on a snake IAnd as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for Ive got a particular skin,I do think its the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives the poor suicides in !And, after all, aint there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill ?And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giless, and f
. The poetical works of Thomas Hood. With a memoir of the author ... p dreaming of Swing,—In short, I think that a pastoral life is not the most happiest thing ;tor besides all the troubles Ive mentioned before, as endured for ruralitys sake,—Ive been stung by the bees, and Fve sat among ants, and once—ugh ! I trod on a snake IAnd as to mosquitoes, they tortured me so, for Ive got a particular skin,I do think its the gnats coming out of the ponds that drives the poor suicides in !And, after all, aint there new-laid eggs to be had upon Holborn Hill ?And dairy-fed pork in Broad St. Giless, and fresh butter wherever you will?And a covered cart that brings Cottage Bread quite rustical-like and brown?So one isnt so very uncountrified in the very heart of the my minds made up, and although Im sure Cousin Giles will be vexed,I mean to book me an inside place up to town upon Saturday next,And if nothing happens, soon after ten, I shall be at the Old Bell and Crown,And perhaps I may come to the country again, when London is all burntdown !. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS, 373 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. Druwud! drownd !—//a7«Ze<. One more of to her death ! Take her up her with care ;Fashioned so , and so fair ! Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements ;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips from her clothing ;Take her up , not loathing.— Touch her not scornfully ;Think of her and humanly ;Not of the stains of that remains of herNow is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful :Past all has left on herOnly the beautiful. Still, for all slips of of Eves family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily. Loop up her tressesEscaped from the fair auburn tresses ;Whilst wonderment guessesWhere was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? Had she a brother? Or wa
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