May 23 The Harvard Classics, fifteen minutes a day
A Plea for an Unfortunate
From the river her body was tenderly lifted—the girl who could find no place in the vast city. Thomas Hood pleads for her—eloquently and justly. Read this gem of pathos.
- Thomas Hood born May 23, 1799.
From the 1930 Reading Guide
Poems
Thomas Hood
Page 907 opens with the last lines of “Fair Ines”; the reading starts at “563 The Bridge of Sighs.”
563 The Bridge of Sighs
ONE more UnfortunateWeary of breathRashly importunate,Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashion’d so slenderly,Young, and so fair!
Look at her garmentsClinging like cerements;Whilst the wave constantlyDrips 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 herNow is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutinyInto her mutinyRash and undutiful:Past all dishonour,Death has left on herOnly the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,One of Eve’s family—Wipe those poor lips of hersOozing so clammily.
Loop up her tressesEscaped from the comb,Her 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 was there a dearer oneStill, and a nearer oneYet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarityOf Christian charityUnder the sun!O! it was pitiful!Near a whole city full,Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,Fatherly, motherlyFeelings had changed:Love, by harsh evidence,Thrown from its eminence;Even God’s providenceSeeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiverSo far in the river,With many a lightFrom window and casement,From garret to basement,She stood, with amazement,Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of MarchMade her tremble and shiver;But not the dark arch,Or the black flowing river:Mad from life’s history,Glad to death’s mysterySwift to be hurl’d—Anywhere, anywhereOut of the world!
In she plunged boldly,No matter how coldlyThe 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 frigidlyStiffen too rigidly,Decently, kindly,Smooth and compose them;And her eyes, close them,Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staringThro’ muddy impurity,As when with the daringLast look of despairingFix’d on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,Spurr’d by contumely,Cold inhumanity,Burning insanity,Into her rest.—Cross her hands humblyAs if praying dumbly,Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,Her evil behaviour,And leaving, with meekness,Her sins to her Saviour.
564 The Death Bed
WE watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,Her breathing soft and low,As in her breast the wave of lifeKept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seemed to speak,So slowly moved about,As we had lent her half our powersTo eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,Our fears our hopes belied—We thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.
But when the morn came dim and sadAnd chill with early showers,Her quiet eyelids closed—she hadAnother morn than ours.
565 Past and Present
I REMEMBER, I rememberThe house where I was born,The little window where the sunCame peeping in at morn;He never came a wink too soonNor brought too long a day;But now, I often wish the nightHad borne my breath away.
I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!
I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow.
I remember, I rememberThe fir-trees dark and high;I used to think their slender topsWere close against the sky:It was a childish ignorance,But now ’tis little joyTo know I’m farther off from HeavenThan when I was a boy.
The poem that begins at “SIR AUBREY DE VERE” low on page 911 runs on past the assigned pages; the reading stops before it.
Volume 41, pages 907–911 · See the scanned page on archive.org
This is the reading for May 23 in Fifteen Minutes a Day: The Reading Guide (1930 edition), page 5. There the assignment reads “Vol. 41, pp. 907–911.” Read it in the guide.